The countryside whips past
On the other side of the glass.
I already miss it, yearn for it-
The earth, the smell
Of blooming apple trees.
Finding a corner in Mom’s orchard
To draw and be alone
With my thoughts.
Winter’s already grabbing October
With ice cold fingers
And dragging it down into the abyss.
Winter, the season of death
And muddy slush
Kicked up onto the sidewalks of the City.
And of course my stupid dad and his stupid dogs.
The nastiest of them, Cera,
Bit me last year.
I had to get stitches.
My mom had to pay for them.
Dad’s apartment is cold and empty,
Like I am when I have to sleep there.
When I go to the city
I leave my emotions behind me on the farm.
I lift my head from the cold glass of the bus window
And pull my sketchbook out of my backpack.
I select a fresh sharpie,
Smooth and inky black, like January nights.
I uncap it and scribble all over the page,
Destroying the possibilities of the blank canvas
Page after page
Until the sharpie turns streaky and grey.