I’m here so rarely,  it takes on the shape of an alien world.
        I must reorient myself.
So much stuff I don’t want–stacks of it

in neat clean piles and I worry about the soul
       of our country.
So much wanting.  Malls are filled with happy

music, bright sklylights flooding the space,
       Starbucks and cookie shops–
all the caffeine and sugar you could hope for.

Held in the middle of all this manufactured happiness,
       I want nothing but out of there.
I long for a world where the air is not artificailly chilled,

where we’re surrounded by natural light, no music,
       just the sound of birds,
maybe a distant plane.