Kansas poem.

Golden wheat in summer,
and tall stalks of corn.
Lightning loud with humidity
and thick, thick rain.
Home of tornadoes, Wizard of Oz,
ruby red slippers, and Jayhawks.

Sunflowers make us smile,
rain washes us clean,
and roads stretch to our forevers.

We are in the middle
of nowhere
and the middle
of everywhere.

We are the state
with a bite taken out.

(every so often, I am that bite
chewed up and spit back onto bread.)

We mostly find happiness
in the simplest of things
and still we search
until we forget
just what we are searching for.

That itch to find the excitement
the world holds outside of here
crawls up and down on my skin,
sometimes worse than others,
but I can’t get out
without getting sick.

This just happens to be home.
This is where I am.

Maybe Kansas can have its own excitement.
Maybe I’ll just make it.

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