Maybe I'll listen to stories from the deep
cell block. Maybe I'll hear the clock wheeze,
and I'll wonder how much time. Maybe I'll search
for the perfect hat. Maybe I'll scan the endless
rows of whole milk, mopping random spills.
Maybe I'll drive to the white squirrel, the lone
buck, and the eagle. Maybe I'll hornet-fly
to Nevada; I’ll dance in the desert that I call
home. Maybe I’ll write to you. Maybe I’ll sing
to an empty room. Somewhere, out there, right
now, another girl has no maybes. Come sunset,
outside, she’s stealing a wallet and shooting
up.
C.A. MacConnell
