My body goes shaking down the train track;
Toledo, Chicago Lincoln and back.
A road, nothing more—
One that I rode one hundred times before
On the rail the highway or in the sky
On this road where I will probably die.
Yes, I have flown to Paris in the spring
And I have heard New Orleans Creoles sing.
It all helped me see—
That all those places really weren’t for me
I’m from the land where the sun flowers rise
And the goldenrod itches in my eyes.
I loved the swimming at Miami Beach.
But that just couldn’t ever really reach
Who I really am—
The way eternal lush green cornfields can.
When I see them through the glass of my car
Then my yawning brain stretches out that far.
I need the space to think expansively
out in the middle my movement is free
Pitt and Denver grind
Out at the hilly borders of my mind
But looking at the sky out here I’ve seen
The greatest space is always in between
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