slipping through the illinois morning
flying like an eagle in the back seat
of my parents car


on my way to an ancient burial mound
rising up out of the river bottoms
the missisippi mud holding lives in reserve


i’ll eat cold meat
out of a tin
covered in syrup


these things sickly sweet
memories
pain and pleasure
in equal counts


playing with broken toys
in dirty goodwill aisles
2,000 miles and 40 years
later i’ll watch my boys
do the same


its all luck
and
i’ve had a bit of it