By Andrew R. Duckworth
The minds around the field
Are inflated, not with knowledge
But with dastardly ego, the sort
That stays quiet until you’re
Out of the room. Driving here
Feels the same as it always did-
Numb, nothing out of the ordinary.
On some roads, you can sleep
And still end up where you need.
Out the window is flat land,
And little else beyond a few
Patches of trees and tractors,
Some grain bins and a house
Here and there. You can meet
Jesus on the side of the road
Here at this place, but the sort
Of Jesus that is stripped down
To remove most teachings,
Just believe and that’s it,
Nothing more noble than the
Devil’s methods. This place was
Never home, not really. I was
Always trying to find it between
The lies and the lips that
Spoke them. I found true home
Hundreds of miles west.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 