what it will be like, not
being here: a lot, in fact,
like not being in Des Moines,
Iowa. In Des Moines, Iowa
there are (surely) streets–streets
lined with storefronts and
offices where right now (presumably)
people are walking, singly and
in pairs and groups, talking,
or not, striding purposefully
to a destination, or sauntering
without direction. In Des Moines,
Iowa there are (most likely) lovers
waking up in each other’s arms,
overjoyed to be alive, happy, in
fact, to be waking up in
Des Moines, Iowa. And there are
also (without doubt) old men, sorrowful
and lost, who are stumbling, without hope
through another day. And somewhere
in Des Moines, Iowa, there may be
(statistically likely) someone I once
met, however briefly—someone
whose path crossed mine somewhere.
And there must be restaurants,
theatres, museums and parks
to explore. All these people, all this
life—imagine.
And yet
for days and days and days,
I have given no thought at all
to Des Moines, Iowa. Yes.
Like that.
Dan Lewis lives in Worcester, MA. He is the author of This Garden and two chapbooks, Tickets for the Broken Year, and Iconospheres. Winner of the 2012 Frank O’Hara Prize, he has been published by The Cortland Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Bombay Gin, Diner, Blue Unicorn, and others.
