I sit beneath a portrait
of Abraham Lincoln,
reminding me the land from where I come.
More practical than an old license plate;
More poetic than just another road map,
dotted by circled rest area exits
I may someday again stop to pee.
He personifies the place;
Each season charts the wrinkles
across his cherry syrup face.
Summer in his woolen eyes;
Spring slipping past his cheeks;
Autumn in his relic beard;
Winter across his crooked brow,
frozen by time in a country’s grief.
I sit beneath a portrait
on nights I feel alone.
His stern gaze confirms for me
I am
and so I lug myself into bed.

written on 06/29/2010 by: Matt Kane