Snow piled horizontal on the trees and fence.
Thick shadows that persist after early sunsets.
I told her "everything smart's already died or fled."
She said "let's ghost:
haunt the deep-fried countryside south, till we defrost,
standing under the Spanish moss on the third coast."
But we'd be there that spring;
I'd told her I had a bad feeling 'bout it,
she said "you get a bad feeling 'bout everything."
Hanging like locks on the overpa**,
I held a cigarette up to the headlights below
so I'd know when to ash.
I was quiet. She's right:
I'm learning too slow
that I'll go nowhere fast.
What a drag.
Is this one of those things that I can figure out,
or just one of those things I'll learn to live without?
If I'm waiting, I don't know what for.
Whatever it is, it don't seem worth it now.
Look how far I can extend my adolescence.
I'm not sure, but I think that it's impressive
that I can't leave, head lodged in the firmament.
Full-grown and struggling with object permanence.