I remember threading through the backyards of my neighborhood.
I was that kid who was destined to roam. Mile after mile on bicycles;
Later, I rode motorcycles insanely, a man with a death wish. I'd crash,
I was told, and it turned out I did. Now, I doze in a lawn chair in
Eastern Nebraska. I still have the bikes, but don't ride anywhere.
I think about roaming while tethered at home, a ruin which once was
That child who wandered through backyards, past mountains
And prairies. Now, nothing. It would appear that I'm done.