I dream of Indiana, because of a woman.
I dream of Indiana, too dream of something.
Cold and grey days, colorless at noon today,
I dream of her, and how we know the score.
Some rural town, like the one I’m in now,
with mustard yellow silos pricking the sky
and a smattering of houses in the dead fields,
and the ubiquitous chain stores in town.
I dream that in a place even drabber, colder,
than the place I am now, just as empty, burning,
as left behind and sighing, that with her there,
I could be happy, content, settled.
Years ago, when we were young, we partied
and we knew heartbreak and loss and hope
and magic in the sung words, the right note
of a tragic and sorrowful song.
We knew the promise of April and spring
and the soft and warm sunshine through a
classroom window, the joy of connecting,
as we smoked cigarettes at shitty parties.
And know, older and greyer and fatter, left behind,
I dream of her and that grey prairie state, of finding
her and beginning again, recapturing something my
broken mind and scorched heart has lost.
I dream of Indiana because of a woman.
I dream of Indiana to dream of something.
Fools errand. Our moment has passed forever.
But I dream to escape the terror of silence.
The terror of my own thoughts.