We know a place
Tucked in foothills,
A place that is beautiful
And wretched

One that is sick
And starving
And cold

One painted in boxcar songs,
Taped together with blood feuds
And weird-shaped bones

A postcard that pines to leave itself,
To strip the lumber from the mountain
And build something better,
Something less fractured

We know an open window
Where you can toss your crumbs,
Where you can leave your flowers,
Your pennies and your dimes

We know an open window,
One that’s too high to reach
And too small
To climb through