Maybe it’s time we call it quits, shake hands
like little leaguers after a game shuffling back
to the fence where our parents wait for us
to grow out of it. It’s all-American,
this ragged sentimentality; clinging to driftwood
shaped like fenceposts, Iowa, a blonde girl without opinions.
Maybe the stars in our eyes overgrew with wild.
Maybe we’re all desperate here.
I’m taking a vacation
from daydreams, sweet honey
sunglasses and a roadmap to remorse.
Went 115 the entire way to New Mexico; it’s a miracle
we wound up right side up.
The pulse of this thing has been slowing for months now.
It’s got a death rattle that sounds like a teacup
hitting the floor.
It feels like rounding all the bases and never going
home. The third strike sounds less final than you’d think.