dandelion wine

outside of the Greyhound station
in Wichita
he poaches the longest
of the stubbed squares
from ashtrays
to help wash down
the last few lines he wrote

the type of lines
that can extract the yeast
from towns left in a hurry
and ferment the dandelions
that she wore in a woven tiara

he wrote the blades of grass
back up through their toes
and put the moon of West Virginia
into the deepest parts of her eyes
the uncaged parts, the ones
that can make an asylum of a man
who has not unlocked his own

he folded the loose paper
and placed it along with the other scraps
into the binding of the dog eared copy
of "Leaves of Grass" that he carried

scraps that scolded sons
for leaving home
with loaded guns
and scraps
that find answers
to the big questions
in little loves

he is now headed to Pennsylvania
because it's October
and every fallen leaf
speaks answer