Ur of the Prairies

The middle of this empire of America
Is a sewer.

Unacknowledged by what rushes over on skyward boulevards,
We made our quiet lives.

I never ventured very far north,
Past the geriatric valley that ostensibly held a river,
Except to visit casinos, eat fried fish and longhorn burgers.

South and west were in the borders of my patria,
Different but safely familiar.

At last I looked east to a pine-ridden Haran
And set out with delusions of magnificence.

This presumption of being led,
Enticed by outlandish voices:
Why else does anyone leave home?

You may change more than just your name
In the wilds of wayward ripening.

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