on my way

I am on my way
to somewhere sleek and soft
with my eyes out of focus,
my blistered hands
shoved into sweater-pockets.

I’ve got a fever for more,
a word so expansive
I can hardly breathe it out.

but what if I want to live here?

buy that tiny house I’ve admired for years
with the silver trashcan on the porch,
& the stars it its window-eyes?

what if I want to
catch the stormclouds in my cheeks
as they rumble down-river?

Lightning is only as thick
as this pen I am writing with,

and this town is as
enveloping as leaves
that flood the storm drains.