It’s time to write a poem

The sun is setting.

Or I guess, we are spinning,

literally, like the back hand springs

the girls would practice

on the playground

at East Farms School,

from Maine to New Mexico

they cut a path

on the map Mr. Keller

painted the summer

of the bicentennial,

these fifty united states

in horrible yellow paint

on the blacktop.

This round about trip

through the universe,

even from this desk,

looking out over

my right shoulder is so…

…so damn beautiful.

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