port clinton.

you call me
from the insides of port clinton
locked down
between walls
barred steel
wired webs
voice quivered
they do this to break you
low
remind you of where your two feet stand
and the perimeter they will solely walk
their days to
but these are not
their days
give them nothing
they will never carry you circular motion
one foot in-front of
the next
time goes by
in four year intervals
last time I saw you
me
driving cross country
thru cleveland
don’t go back there
when they let you out
don’t go back there
people die in the homes they grew up in
we ‘grew up’
but growing old is not the same
you and me
we'll never die
there
in those homes
i woulnt let us dissolve
like that
burnt ash
we spent our days
groom creek
cabin style
wood burning stove
at war with freezing air
outside
heading north on montezuma
towards sundance place
drink our fill of beefeaters and
tonic
that was life
in a moment
you don’t know how to tell me
on this collection call
what worlds your two feet walked
we sit on telephone wires
a man echoing in
silhouettes of time
to let me know
where exactly you are
i don’t trust your story
but i trust you