A Boy at the St. Louis Bus Station

Blake Lynch

Last night,
I dreamt I was a radio,
playing too softly for the farmer to hear,
and I wanted to wander
out into the desert,
and dig into the ground,
where the stars are hard to see.

Instead, I woke
sweating,
swinging my fists at the world.

Now I am nervous,
looking into the eyes of a stranger,
sitting in a Greyhound depot
as the highway fills up with snow.

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