Minnesota

 tater tot hotdish

ground beef this          ground beef that

there’s a dry hunk of meat in the slow cooker

 

it doesn’t matter to me

I worked up an appetite at football

 

I wonder if anyone has any extra tickets

            for the Twins game

 

are ya gonna kiss me or what?

            my first love asked

            as we waited in the rain

            for our parents to come pick us up

            from the movie theater

I guess she found the moment romantic

 

the windows fogged

            from my heavy breaths

the door wouldn’t open

            blocked by iced-over snowbank

 

I hope the bus gets here soon

it’s gotta be twenty below

            with the wind chill

 

it’s too muggy

Mom says

            to go to Valley Fair

 

my pants are stained and torn,

            but the ump called me safe at second

you shoulda seen it! it was sweet!

 

my feet itch

            from the snow that leaked into my shoes

            on the slippery walk home from basketball practice

 

when will Grandpa be back with more gas for the boat?

I want to ski one more time before the loons

come back, before the campfire

            before laughing at my drunk uncle’s lude comments

 

I need to head in     the mosquitos are eating me up

 

Minnesota isn’t a place    it’s a time

 

when I’d sit on a branch

            in an auburn oak in the Mississippi’s ravine

watching foam and branches

and plastic bags meander on the slow current

 

they don’t sell tickets to that state

            in my heart

but sometimes late at night

when the smell of rain sneaks in my window

I’m allowed to visit

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- August, 2020)

This poem is the product of a brief stint of homesickness. For this poem, I used something similar to a stream of consciousness style, giving an image in each line (or couple of lines) that weave together into a tapestry of my childhood in Minnesota. The concept is good, but it just falls a bit short for me.