I had a thought today, and it wasn’t new. They’re always there and never few.
My margins have been shrinking from closets to cabinets to crevices too small to breathe in. There aren’t enough folds to be made in these paper lungs to fit. No space to expand, just close walls and stale air.
That’s where I find myself when on these drives. The brisk gusts lose their bite, the drone of the rubber on road becomes a dirge. “Oh grave where is thy victory?”
In my heart.
These mid-west highways haven’t been home for ages. Hills like headstones, trees a bouquet from a past lover. The rocks cry out, “Here lies your future, you gave up on it long ago.”
But I tried to keep it alive, I tried to feed it daily, but three square meals gets lofty when you can’t make ends-meat.