Somewhere in Indiana
a mother pulls her children out of the creek,
wringing them like dirty dishrags.

A man cracks open his last beer on the edge of sunset,
praising his fourteen hour work days
and the five hundred square feet he calls home.

A teenage girl chases her brother through the field by the highway.
He stole her lunch money and she covets a prom dress,
saving money and calories where she can.

It smells like spring in the middle of July.
The sky bleeds watercolor — it’s 9:03 pm
and the sun is breaking its curfew.

I press my feet against the windshield, and he hums.
This is the third state we’ve seen through windows today.
We don’t live here, but someday, I think, we might.