I am driving across the wide expanse of green and golden
fields in Iowa and Nebraska, corn and soy and pastures for the grazing cattle
all the way to the horizon. I smell
fertilizer and a skunk, run-over on the highway. I am driving across the farmland of America’s
heartland in a dusty pickup truck, listening to the disco-thump, synthpop of
the Pet Shop Boys – songs of love and New York City, where seventh avenue meets Broadway.
The blades of wind turbines spin through the clouds above me, highway 80 reaches out in front of me, gold and green tractors wave to me and I am singing songs about radiophonic vampires.
A thought: How old are these boys now? How long ago was it I met them kicking in chairs in a West End Town?
My son wakes up, wipes a string of saliva from his chin. “Are we there yet?”
The blades of wind turbines spin through the clouds above me, highway 80 reaches out in front of me, gold and green tractors wave to me and I am singing songs about radiophonic vampires.
A thought: How old are these boys now? How long ago was it I met them kicking in chairs in a West End Town?
My son wakes up, wipes a string of saliva from his chin. “Are we there yet?”
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