You recall that night, every second
as it moved slowly to its grave,
when you got the message on the Kansas plain
and began to cherish the details you have left.
Now you have to go back there
but you’re not really sure what for.

The highway is as empty as you at four
in the morning, wading through the endless seconds,
wondering about the other cars and if they’re
going to visit their mothers or fathers grave,
as they pull in front of you and make a left
down a lonly street that is simple, plain

and leads to the airport where you’ll catch the next plane
back to where you were once before
and retrieve all the things that you left;
your pencils, pens, and trophy for coming in second,
the silver, the china and the deed to your grave.
You never realized it was all really theirs

and you return to the airport that brought you there
by daylight to try and catch the evening plane;
knowing now that the situation is grave,
no chance to raise your club and yell “Fore”,
feel the power if only for a second
before the ball slices right to left.

Your car is waiting, there’s a flat on the front left
tire, so you go back inside to find another way out of there.
The waiting is slow, mocked by the seconds
ticking out of the lobby clock, across the plane
between the ceiling and floor, bouncing off all four
walls with the hollow thud of a grave.

While you wait, you think of what it will say on your grave,
after you time has arrived and left;
you think maybe then you’ll know what it was for,
when you get from here to there
once more, drift across the palins
with the other souls looking for a second

chance to get what you left home for,
why you travel these plains to there
and try to record every second from the cradel to the grave.