To Maryland

From a grey bus seat rug-covered,
I sit, elevated, 7 feet from normal,
waiting to be delivered.
To saunter through your yellow clouds
with silver linings
will be the awaited celebration of your name
on my printed, ripped, wrapped,
quarreled-over, and printed-again
ticket stub.

From this vantage point,
I gaze upon hawks
dancing in the wind and getting dizzy
from their twirl,
feel the straight strength
of the yellow
line on pavement,
its quiet constant presence,
like when I bury my face
into the hairs of his chest
and chin,
allowing his touch to bring me
back to the ground.

Steadied not
by focusing on the changing horizon
of brown-limbed trees and dry grasses,
I look down and watch
cars zip by,
and acknowledge an old belief
that people choose their cars
much like how
they choose a breed of dog:
intrinsically, it is
a matchmaking.

I look
into windows and am unable to see
faces; only a peek into lifestyles,
like the curious innocent
stroll past houses
of a neighborhood, imagining a life
to lead within each one.
From decadence to crowding,
families to solo,
hard-worked veiny hands,
to the glitz of jeweled wrist,
pistol companies and
angling associations,
fast food lunches to groceries
with tulips,
I watch America drive
right by my window.