Al Stewart/Norman Maclean
For her, I leave these old records,
These yellow books behind.
She wants cigarettes for dinner,
So we picnic on the porch,
Admire the parking lot prairie
Across the street.
She asks me why she feels
Thisway:
Strewn like gravel,
Coming apart and
Splitting like straw.
I point.
I tell her,
Look for the place between the trees.
Imagine it runs through you.
(2010)
