Lancaster Pa

Killdeer Farm, at midnight, I bellied an open bay window. Its ledge mentioned the pounds I've earned, and for a second I lost self-esteem. A foul wind came up, did ungodly things to me; open my top, rubbed me a bit with cold feet, gave wings to linens on a line. The lights were gray, the darks were dressed in night. I heard them, their wings flopping, they could not go free. I saw the cruelty, I did not say a word. I was afraid of letting bugs into my mouth. To the west, the cornfields were null and void; their darkness was upon the face of the deep, but when my mind rushed me toward a bad conclusion, I told myself, Lancaster is a triangle with three different sides. I saw House Rock Road, Pequea & Chickies Hill on Route 441 looking toward Columbia. It was there I laughed boisterously without the fear of bugs passing close to the realm of my lips. Pennslyvania is my Pennslyvania & your Pennslyvania.