Twilight, the air thick with smog.
A police car passing by,
sirens blaring, passers-by staring.
Browned pages, fluorescent lights.
A vessel into another world, made of ink.
This is my home, and I live alone.
My father calls to tell me he is safe,
to tell me that he loves me,
but there is so much he doesn’t know.
And the boy wonder, he was mine,
but I haven’t seen him in a while.
Sometimes I dream of a clear night sky
like in Kansas long ago,
but the vessel made of ink, it needs me so.