while piloting an F150 Roush
through the hills of Connecticut
looking for the Red Rooster.
Craved a burger.
America!
Bacon.
Small fries.
Medium Dr. Pepper.
Bruce Springsteen Instagram Stories.
This is the place
where the narrator
of ever Dave Matthews song
writes his college poems,
where the oldest graves
are under the biggest oaks.
Durward Kirby.
Last of the Mohicans.
I don't want to hear about your vacation
or if the weather "held out" for your weekend;
I wanna hear about those moments
when you find yourself opposite of expectations;
I want to know about the miles
that snuck up on you while you were
being present without knowing it;
I wanna hear about the stones
without using cliches or turns of phrases.
I have come so far from that dirty boy
in white trash trailer parks
north of the Orlando International Airport,
and here I sit in a hot tub overlooking a beautiful lake
in the mansion suburbs,
taking it all in, sipping a mango seltzer,
when my daughter joins me.
"Just gonna put my feet in, Dad," she says,
and we talk about the lake
and the reflection of the clouds in the water,
how it looks like mountains.
I suggest we rolling a ball down the big hill.
"That'd be fun," she says,
and I find a couple of kick balls,
which we toss down the hill,
watching them bounce and crash into the bushes below.