Isn't the dream of the sod
just the dream to get out of the sod?

Didn't the geranium snapping its tonsils
against the Dairy Queen window
push upward in its pot for this —
to live, to look out

on a rust-covered crane
with its jaw full of rocks,
an awning burdened with wind,
two girls leaning against the picnic table,
licking swirly cones, aching
in the core of their bones just to grow ?

Isn't it why they're so quiet,
listening for gossip
to catch like sticky napkins
from the wind?

He's thinking of selling it.
Shut up, I told you, just shut the fuck up!
Yeah, he saw her car at the hotel on 20.
Fifty bucks a week on the lottery.

They listen beneath a tree,
which sounds like far-off applause,
beside a river, which sounds like a woman rushing
to braid their shiny hair,
pulling more and more length
from the stinging banks.