She wants to move from Minot
to a city that can hold her
attention, to have it all
within a half-hour’s drive—
and I listen, remember
gliding through L.A. in the 60s.
How we must crave
to be entertained, to feel
the latest and the best art forms
going down the road—
to find quiet neighborhoods
close to the action.
She is young with a baby.
The map unfolds, roads
like spokes, they focus
West away from snow.
There was a time, I guess,
digging postholes in the sun,
miles from town, I longed
to rub against the herd, to stir
the city’s fire. Driving home
the long way, facing headlights
of semis hauling oranges
before the rain, Saturday night
along the ditch we watch
for drunks through Yettem
and Seville—all the excitement
we want escaping Fresno
and Highway 99.
We crave our wood stove.
for Jamee
drycrikjournal 
John:
Brilliant!
Pat
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