Galesburg

John always sings the same songs,

and I walk to the coffee shop

every time he plays folk.

It's good for the soul,

like going to church, except with banjos.

The loose leaves in the bottom

of my Earl Grey tea

are shaped like an anchor—stay,

stay a while. I see a woman

who looks like your mother,

knitting in the corner

and here becomes

our home too for a moment,

then a confused rooster of a town

again, the trains crowing

at all hours of the night.

My friend tells me a story about walking

four miles to get to his bed,

but I'm thinking about your hands,

and John is singing, If I knew the way

I would take you.

If I took you home I would crawl

for miles inside your chest.