Last night I had a dream that I took off in a station wagon
to tour the country:
I sampled chicken wings and made temporary friends
in the lobbies of cheap motels.

I stopped in parks and played ukulele for pocket change,
and I drank hazelnut coffee while the sorbet sun stretched its aching bones.
I left poems tacked on trees, balanced on pillows, and pressed
into the hands of homeless people in big cities.

I felt so young.

I slept in the middle of dirt roads, inhaling mosquitos
and God. I stopped at every lemonade stand, gave dollar bills when
the little ones asked for a nickel. I ate pretzel sticks and strawberries
while I drove, and I made it to California and back, and
never once did you leave my mind.