We decide to go to St. Louis.
We buy CD’s, maps, chips. We fill the car with gas. Hour three, we begin to wonder if this is a good idea. Still we do it. It is a good idea. We go to Chicago, Normal, back. We listen to Billy Joel and Cindy Lauper. We sing loudly. We drive long. We are not stopped. We have pizza. We see baseball. We drink coffee. We turn heads. We cry twice. We wear jeans and leather jackets and baseball caps and boots and fake fur. We carry cameras, books, a tripod, a guitar.
It is a good idea. It is a good idea.
I write on top of my first poem: I decide to bring it.
Onstage, I am asked: Has this tour made you reconsider your onetime desire to be a singer?
Oh hell. I decide to do it, to do it all. I see it all. It’s all there. I might as well grab it. I decide to grab it. I decide to handle anything and everything: hours of traffic, anxious people, hunger, lack of sleep, hurdles, the city, money, the years. I decide to take a turn at the wheel.
Months and months ago, I noticed the magic. People seem to let us in for free, upgrade our airplane tickets, smile. Barrettes work as cuff links. Pennies are found. There are those clouds.
All of this and...yes. You can. I can.
We can do anything—absolutely anything—together. Magic? We’re here.