Denver 3, or Poem I wrote and performed at the open mic tonight

I'm on a train through North Dakota,
staring mesmerized out the window at the 26th
continuous mile of soybean fields,
watching them turn from black to green
under the sunrise.

Every time I see a house out here, I want to wave
at the locals, who do not look like me.
The train stops in places like Devil's Lake,
where the tallest thing in sight is a rusting water tower.

A leather-faced man in flannel and dungarees
hugs a kid with a guitar strapped to his back,
watches as we pull away like he's willing himself not to chase
us. I find the kid two cars down.

He says his name is Daniel and he mostly plays country
but he hears that won't fly in the city we're headed to.
Maybe he'll try writing his own, or something. He's never heard
of a traveling poetry circus either, but he says,
"I think you're brave, a girl like you alone out here."
We talk about how we've both left the girls we love without any promise
to return but we can't stay and they can't follow,
so we're gonna have to hold ourselves through this winter.

He says,
"Do you mind if I sleep on your shoulder? It took me two hours
to catch the 5am train and well, you seem sweet."
I say,
"Sure, honey,"
kiss the top of his crew cut like I've known him for years,
an introduction to the kindness of strangers.