It’s in the rows of old oaks

the pothole that was never filled,

the decrepit buildings like time capsules
dark and crumbling, creaking out a song
of far-off secrets, their sagging floors writ with
wood-scars of decades past,
bare feet and spilled lemonade,
pieces of chicken left out for the strays,
quiet evenings curled warm within a hand-sewn quilt
while the crickets and lightning bugs
performed their nightly cabaret just beyond the windowpanes.

It’s in the strained smiles, the folk who settled in,

dug their toenails into the dried earth and stayed put.
Slow, soft-spoken drawls, hugs that squeeze all the truth
from your lungs.
It’s in the same two restaurants,
the same greasy burger, the same
breaded porkchop, the Sunday service,
the ritualistic abuse.
You can cross the county line,
drive on past the swampland and the deer carcasses,
hit the highway pavement and find yourself
far removed from this liminal space.
Chase the skyscrapers and parking garages,
the concrete havens carved out
from the woodland through stubborn sheer will.
It doesn’t matter. There’s always a hollow, a yearning,
this calling back to the inkblot on a withered atlas map,
the lingering sting of sunlight on bare shoulders,
the simple thrill of unloading a clip into a strip-mine bank.
There are wild boars screeching in the forest,
hidden graveyards with finely manicured lawns
though the family line died out years ago.

Even so far away, the sick-sweet perfume of honeysuckles lingers on your tongue.

Come back, the humid wind whispers against the shell of your ear.