In between you and me,
there is flyover country
where the pundits hold sway
like the corn in the fields.
And there is a long, deep
river, a demarcation
where we gamble
our lives away
to the lazy rhythm
of a paddle boat’s slog.
And by that river,
there is an arch—
an icon, a symbol,
rising high above the divide.
I will grab the country
by that handle and pull
as if closing an umbrella,
folding shore upon shore,
making this distance closer—
or maybe I will swing it around
and try to knock some sense
into its fearful brain
and hopeless heart—
or maybe I will just pick it up
and carry it far away,
bring it to safety from itself.
I want to believe
that I too can do
what took legions of men
laying rail and ties
and blowing open mountains
years to accomplish.