Hey Porter

I miss the South.
I miss the humid greenery, the unending roads of America.
I miss that car, safely carrying us coast to coast.

I miss fried pickles in Natchez, Louisiana, and ribs in Lubbock, Texas.
I miss the soft, singing dialect of Alabama and sunset over the wide Mississippi.
I miss Pie Town, New Mexico, where the apple pie came with real vanilla ice cream and I thought the world existed just for me.
I miss the way the Pacific Ocean seemed to lie in wait for us and only us.

We sat at the White Horse Tavern tonight, and I thought there is so much more to life than whatever we think we deserve to expect.

If I could be satisfied, I know I'd be happy forever.
But I'll never be satisfied with this, with this anything.
That's what keeps me working through the uncertain terrain, through the cold, dry winds of New York. One day I'll be elsewhere, wondering wherein comfort lies, and I'll look to another horizon. Satisfied dangles like an impossible word.

I'd have it no other way.

America, I will come for you yet. Life, I will struggle for you forever.