The Back 40

Last night I drove to the other side of my mind.

She was sitting there.

Smiling and writing a poem about her mind.

Ironic, I thought, but I still sat down.

She’s always here with her golden hair

In her golden chair

That, I think, is actually mine.

But let’s stay on one train at a time.

She writes in a way

That looks like she’s painting a picture.

It isn’t until I’m close

That she looks up.

And with no sign of fog, she says,

It’s like a smoky club here.

And a her frown fills the room.

I never did like when she did that.

I tell her to keep smiling and write.

She lowers her head,

Raises the corners of her beautiful mouth,

And proceeds on her grammatical canvas.

I walk behind her

And peek over her shoulder.

This is how it read

A mind within a mind.

Which one is mine.

The one that shines?

Or the one in time?

Do I love the man?

Or do I love the stand?

His pedestal? His hands?

Sweet air of a sour land?

And on like that

She wants out of my head.
Sort of.

I kneel down before her.

I look her in the eye

Smile falls to frown, again.

Why does she do that?

I tell her I could put her with the others
If she preferred.

But she wants out.

I tell her, we could liven up the place.

I could rid it of the mythical smoke.

I could get her a softer chair.

We could laugh, again.

As silence fills the back 40 of my mind.

I pull the key out of my pocket.

I set it down at her feet.

As I stood up,

I saw her smile.