by Kirk Wisland
I’m from nowhere
in the middle
from a two car garage port
basketball court
overhanging shade trees
and boredom battles
I’m from Sunday morning regularity
and stand up straight
and dinner’s at six
and don’t be late
and futile rebellion
against back of the hand diplomacy
I’m from certain rock
transplanted
to the avenue of questionable indecision
and unfortunate decisiveness
where it intersects with shaky ground
Every year or so
here
we burn the mementos
uproot and re-pot
to a little further east
of sense.
