no more san francisco

there are too many songs named after California cities,

and not enough for the tall grass Great Plains acoustic stories,
that get stuck into the corners of literature. where in
the alley behind the school, spaceships exist.

there are no songs for knee-knocking sticky Southerners
with nervous hands held, attached to bewildered young listeners
with an unfortunate conflict of interest in their unsung song.

there are songs for New York City, but none for the edges
of Maine where fools gold fools children who don't mind the
fooling, and their parents keep track of the rocks tossed aside.

no one sings about the desert that glows orange, where once
sand crept into your backpack and it took several months to
get out. a token of harsh sun and unrequited love.

and there are far too few songs about rocky mountain love.
i traveled on mountain ridges to find summersaulting vistas.
you were under melted snow, before the grass woke up,
it seemed like the wrong time, so i kept an un-kissed memory
as a memento, and no one sings about that.