lincoln, nebraska

I am sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at hot tea.

I look out the windows we can’t get open
and think about what it smells like
when you hose down a sidewalk in the summer,
the smell of wet that hangs in the air
and it promises
and it cleanses
and some days, goes so far as forgives.

out the windows we can’t get open
the backyard is all leaves and tiki torches
it is none of our concern.

when I see two squirrels are sitting on the fence
I wonder if they could drive through the badlands
with a sawed of .410, if they would.
I clap my hands and they scatter.
I bury my ipod in a box in the Post Office
and look outside to see what sticks.
I clap my hands, and see if you heard.