Frankfort, Kentucky

I’m home.
And now I want to wash down all my hot browns with Buffalo Trace.
I want to float the Elkhorn and sing karaoke by your muddy river.
I want to walk the planks of a desolate train track until
A watering hole appears,
And to work my way up and down the Casa Fiesta menu without digestive or cosmetic consequences,
(I’m speaking of cheese dip and margaritas bigger than my face!)
And then twist and curve up the spine of a historic parking garage that oversees our capital city In all its craggy glory,
And then drive on
to Nowhere,
Through the Bald Knob bluff,
Until I see that old man on horseback who likes to cow
High schoolers looking for parties.
I would like to find one of those parties, be the oldest person there, and quietly slip into the trees before they realize… I’m not cool…
That’s when we turn The Ville into Vegas,
An adult retreat from everything banal and regional,
But we can also swing by Cooter Brown’s
Because we have a bar called Cooter Brown’s
Where my dad used to hustle good ol’ boys for their pool money
And dignity,
And I’d like to get in on that.
Finally, let’s end each night with the bang of
Contraband fireworks set off from a bridge–
Or a friend’s deck–
And then have the local paper write it up as small town Shenanigans:
“Probably teenagers, bored.”
Not teachers or state employees or lawyers or doctors or farmers or waiters or fathers or new moms or old aunties
Or Neuroscientists
Or the most tried and true of friends,
Thrilled to still have a home.