Dreams grow on billboards,

some are painted on the sides of barns.


Out of Chicago on 66, winds at my back,

passing brick churches, racing freight trains

to St. Louis, where a river heads south

as I push past growing fields where families

work for peanuts while harvesting corn

as I move onto Oklahoma,

stretching into the sweetness of a Cimarron

Strip and up to Amarillo’s wheat silos reaching like

rockets pointed at the base of heaven

and in the distant Albuquerque sleeps at

Sandia’s base as I make the miles west to Navajo

Flats and arid plains of Flagstaff where ponderosa

pines stand like soldiers as the road ends in LA

and I walk the beaches of broken hearts.



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