The timer went off at four years, so we moved.
Past green, picketed flatland,
Past yellow stalks yearning towards the East,
Past wide highways wandering West.
My parents promised my weeping sister
It was the last time!
Her fragile fumbling roots could rest,
Teetering on the banks of the Atlantic.
I was freshly ten, a budding daffodil
Exhausted by monochromatic peers, and
Looking forward to the city lights that surely
Would illuminate the thrill of the threshold.
The car sputtered.
Five years passed in five miles:
The Mormon church, the high school,
The Hawkeyes sign, the muted college.
A burst of speed to the unknown:
Nothing but corn, hills, and glimpses.
Past Indianapolis, Cleveland, Philadelphia,
And arriving in Boston.
I set my timer for 8 years.