Staring out the window of a plane
there is a certain uniformity to the world.
Confusing city scapes become
ceramic tile countertops
and farmland turns into an
autumn-colored watercolor canvas.
The elementary school where
we hopscotched and four-squared
looks like a third grader’s
hand-drawn illustration of city hall.
And you could see the junior college
we dropped out of
on the other side of the city
where a car crash
kept traffic backed up
like our early 20’s.
You could see the construction site
where we worked our first full time jobs;
The houses we bought, right down
the block from one another.
The hospital where your first born was
born first before mine soon followed suit;
And you could see the cemetery where
your brother lies a tombstone away from my mother.
You could see it all.
But you could never see it
with your feet grounded in the concrete
or your wheels rolling down
the boulevard, late on a Tuesday night.
For some reason those evenings never seem
to look like starry nights when you’re in them;
maybe because gray skies only look ugly
when you’re worried about the time.
But even if the cement where you walk is never wet,
the clouds can see your footprints.
I only wish you saw your city the way they do.
