Speeding between the endless fields of corn and beans
70 . . . 75 . . . “This old junker might make it to 80” . . .
Some girl who knows the meaning of, uh, ‘Hey hit the highway!’
I sang it, shouting it, shoulders and head rocking.
I was cradled between those cornfields so well
I could love the song and the singing
and feel secure, even when speeding,
so that the world would blur into color and sound
as I jetted on my desires.
Yet behind the words were the truths all singers know:
seeds don’t always stay where they’re planted,
the tallest cornstalks can’t reach the sky,
and there never was a lover who wasn’t crazy.
Share this post with your friends.