You told me in Topeka there is no Zen.
Just cornfields, people protesting gays.
A winter that should’ve gone a while ago.
Here’s the poetry you didn’t know:
“Once I built a snowman on the edge of the pond,
And loved him so much I nearly gave him my scarf,
But I am poor and cold.
No one knocked him down,”
you said. “I kept driving by, but no one did.
So there’s hope.”
I recorded you saying that.
Call me and I’ll play it back.