From an Pennsylvania boy on an Indiana night

I write here, 400 miles from the streets
I have known like two eggs, fried bacon
and coffee in a faded vinyl booth;
seven hours from where my brother paints;
seven hours from where my sister grows up;
seven hours from where my old roommates roll their Bugle tobacco;
seven hours from the routines and routes that gave me comfort,
a place to sort things out,
and an impartial ear;
seven hours from the defeats that gave me definition,
sharpened my edges,
and dulled my senses.

---

If I gather all my evil
and I ask it, please, to leave,
will it heed my bare request?
Will it suffice to do my best
in ignoring each temptation
to abandon where I'm stationed?

Will I linger where my feet
and the Earth should truly meet;
am I merely standing where I am,
sufficient for some lesser plan?

---

By what right is this soul weary?
By which bargains is this mind a slave
To thoughts consumed with woesome worry,
Of actions taken with too much haste,
To anything asked beyond today?

Has my penance not been paid and true,
That my suffering may seem but slight?
Or is there an unpaid mortgage due
That keeps me wondering through the night:
How much more's left, and how much is right?

Or is it just to pass the time
That I may trouble myself so?
Is this all only for the rhyme
That seeks the answers I don't know,
That gives my waking a place to go?

---

Uncertainty is certainly
The only thing that you will see
When looking at this mess of words
That could be read, but should be heard.

You see, the timbre of my voice
Reveals that I have made my choice;
And the timbre of this ink
Reveals much less than you would think.