Went East from the West
looking for some respite from the true,
kissing North of Winslow
with no relief of recess,
Save the buzzing void of Heat and
Record scratch of gravel,
the stillness and the
breathing wind; roughed lungs and mourning doves,
a sniffle.
As alone as the locomotive loud,
that drained knowing the city’s made me tired as I wonder
why I ever go back.
And I know the answer, I know it’s for love,
not the love I finally admit I have but a love
for that basin, its cigarettes and coyote hills,
loudest when it’s at its quietest,
yearning to be heard as it spits you out;
A love something paternal for a place that’s been a proving ground
for someone still there; long gone.
thomasdanielvalls.com 