Portland

Driving off like a postman,

With the aerodynamics and color of a cardboard box,

Because I wanted to meet you.

It was not cruising along

with crunchy white static blanketing windows in Wyoming,

being buried, yet unaware

after I emerged into Montana,

the snow relented, but I did not because I wanted to be

with you, not erasable,

you—oh, Eccentric—

able to boast the world’s largest and smallest city parks.

                                                Always loving the loner

bear hug the road-weary,

The Fugitives and Refugees Palahniuk wrote about

                                           in that book about you.

you—in a plethora of cafes—

pour coffee or wine for lonely travelers and locals

                                                 Together, all in one place

are peer-pressured by those

who hang signs, dictating that you should be kept weird.

They try to control you,

people imagining they

Squeeze grass up and shovel the snow off Mt. Hood,

who killed those climbers,

destroyed with power,

if it ever comes down from on high and into the streets

shutting everything down.

Though it was I who apologized

to stop summer with its blossoms groping out

Like people parked, stopping

on the side of a road

to pick wild blackberries for a sweet dessert

like crème aux bleuets skies,

that you find in a recipe book,

with temperate calm and even keeled affection

I never would have left you

driving off like a postman.

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