I Don't Look Up At The Sky Anymore
When I was growing up,
we lived in the boonies, the
edge of civilization where J.C.
lost his shoes some said;
eventually it all became just
another part of the amalgam
that is metro Chicago,
grown as if from vines, each
intertwines with the rooted heart of town
so when you drive around on a street
you know it just seems now
only stoplights signal
the change from place to place;
but back then we were pioneers
living on subverted farmland sold
for a pot of gold to developers who
promised paradise to those who made
the trek to trade the advertised woes of city life
for celebrated suburban tranquility.
So in the early evening, if the weather
was right, and the mosquitoes weren’t
ready to bite, I wandered out to the backyard
and lay down in the grass, which I may
have mowed earlier in the day
and because we were a ways a way
from the city lights, the sky lit up with
stars, and the fireflies were there as well
and you almost couldn’t tell which was which
with so many of each in sight
and the new-mown grass smell
was sweet and lying there
I felt anything was possible.