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Poem

Exit gate C opened up,
And the followers flood
Turnstiles overcrowding,
And fallen ticket stubs
A namesake for the estate
Just off of 23,
On the way to my place
In the southern United States
We've been distant, 
More than I envisioned,
But I invent connections the whole drive down.
I think in 2014, 
when I was 18 or 19,
A midwestern soundtrack
For late night soccer and drinks
Triple C highs
And Red uniforms in extra time
World Cup in the breakroom
In between classes at school
Another cup of coffee and a bet in the pool
I didn't know much back then,
I only liked the color red.
I didn't know what the number on the sleeves meant.
Exit gate C opened up
A capacity influx
And the following crush
Now a cup match, memorialized
For the 96 that died, 
Guilt heavy in my heart,
For a shameful valuation of life
I think, sometimes, that you catch me staring in your yards some nights. 
But I just need to relate, 
To some degree,
A measure of pain
Briefly, I commiserate 
Before the rest of my complaints
Turn into the same songs I heard on darker days
But this distance isn't quite so great
When put into context, the hours spent awake-
You and I, writing similar lines
I can lie on my bed, 
Close my eyes and project 
I can see the Midwestern home project store,
I can see the terraces of a stadium filling up with more,
I can see 23,
The same way that you can see me.

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