Black dirt boy,

on a black belt highway,

me and Exile together

in the front seats,

living Henry Ford’s dream,

butterflies between the teeth,

brain in front of the glass

from too much windshield time,

Springfield wasn’t it?

Must be Illinois,

not enough coffee buzz,

see the USA

in your Chevrolet,

nice and green here,

see the redbuds in bloom

heck no,

Springfield, Missouri,

has to be.

What you smiling at, Exile?

Can’t be from Henry’s dream,

no, didn’t see me laugh.

Complete freedom,

no more ties

to keep us down,

no more farm,

no more family,

no more home,

was time did this,

not drugs,

clever, ain’t you, Exile?

No, the sign said Springdale,

not Springfield,

must be Arkansas,  

gosh darn it all,
hate to see your skull exposed
when you grin real wide.
Kansas? This is Kansas?

Three hundred miles

to Springdale?

Exile, you’re so tricky,

just about too much of a gas,

living Henry’s dream,

they said I’d be home

for the holidays,

but the space we’re going

is awfully long,

Oklahoma,

you’re kidding me now,

there’s a Springdale

in Pennsylvania, you know,

got to be,

with us out here,

having the good times,

just the two of me.

Those old days,

now, those were hard,

not nearly the life,

no wonder

Henry wanted

my dream.

Copyright 2009, Jerry W. Engler