A few months ago, I was skyping with Dad and he read me this poem. He teared up in the middle of it and his voice cracked. Thinking back on that, it falls in place that we are now in the MidWest, and that all of this happened while he was on a road trip with those engines running.Untitled - 1987
The real world stretches between mountains.
Big rivers run through it.On summer nights it is lighted by fireflies.
In the real worldsmall towns are filled with kids eating icecream.
(I smell the gasoline - hear the engines running
The real world is one I've carried within me -
(I hear the women in their cotton dresses laughing)