The Back 40

Last night I drove to the other side of my mind.
She was sitting there.
Smiling and writing a poem about her mind.
Ironic, I thought, but I still sat down.
She’s always here with her golden hair
In her golden chair
That, I think, is actually mine.
But let’s stay on one train at a time.
She writes in a way 
That looks like she’s painting a picture.
It isn’t until I’m close 
That she looks up.

And with no sign of fog, she says, 
It’s like a smoky club here.
And a her frown fills the room.
I never did like when she did that.

I tell her to keep smiling and write.

She lowers her head,
Raises the corners of her beautiful mouth,
And proceeds on her grammatical canvas.

I walk behind her 
And peek over her shoulder.
This is how it read

A mind within a mind.
Which one is mine.
The one that shines?
Or the one in time?

Do I love the man?
Or do I love the stand?
His pedestal? His hands?
Sweet air of a sour land?

And on like that
She wants out of my head.
Sort of.

I kneel down before her.
I look her in the eye
Smile falls to frown, again.
Why does she do that?
I tell her I could put her with the others
If she preferred.

But she wants out.

I tell her, we could liven up the place.
I could rid it of the mythical smoke.
I could get her a softer chair.
We could laugh, again.

As silence fills the back 40 of my mind.
I pull the key out of my pocket.
I set it down at her feet.
As I stood up,
I saw her smile.