Chicago

I once wrote a poem about it being such a dark place that even the marrow oozing out from its hacked bones tries to turn around and creep back inside. But my little girl drove there all by herself yesterday in a rusty fifteen-hundred-dollar car because she wants to explore her options in this world. In this sheer existence. Maybe even catch a bus to other burning stars. I sure hope she goes to see Van Gogh in the museum while she's there. And, as much as I want her to peruse the bright colors of his fantastical love, I hope his crows and peasants remind her of home, and that she suddenly realizes the grand cultural parade she's been craving had been right front of her all along, and we can talk about this epiphany while we swing and smoke together in the smoldering pink sunlight.

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another word for hope . . .

winter rain