I wrote this poem across the length of California,
Scrawling these ink strokes through the vineyards and the shoreline,
Even on the edges of the “H” in Hollywood.
I waltzed through the City of Angels
Tuned to an imaginary score,
Pulling up pieces of the highway and blowing them in the air.
Then I hopped on the eastbound train in an old and rusted boxcar,
Writing another line on the face of wooden crates,
Even on the metal sheets stacked against the corner.
The next night I high-fived the vampires in Denver
And dashed off another verse on a creaky traffic light
As I swung from its taut cable, my shoelaces
Reaching toward the windows of the passing cabs below.
In Dallas they saw me dance on all the tablecloths,
Kicking over glasses, scribbling on the centerpieces.
I wandered round in Nashville,
Dizzied by the neon lights,
And etched a lovely metaphor on the back of a guitar,
One where I compared love to a waning moon.
Then the wind ran wild beneath my arms in Atlanta,
The universe of skyscrapers, planets of burning light,
Offices and windows humming with breath
And watching close as I straddled the top of a limousine,
Pockets inside out, my words on every exit
Down the infinite interstate.
Well, I should tell you,
I wrote this poem all the way to your house
Where I finally lay down in the middle of the road,
Anchored the tip of my pen to your cold street,
And waited for the world to turn,
Drawing a new equator.
One for each of us.