Daydream past the stained glass

and steeple of a tiny Gothic church

to a field where buffalo graze,

and with a perspective shift, watch

clouds swirl in the sky.

Limp back uphill, beyond the red brick

of the Luxembourg-American historical

society, to locate the breakfast diner,

general store, a candy-red Coca-Cola machine

flickering outdoors. Nearby, the grain mill,

a welder’s, the butter-churner’s, park, a tavern.

By the park (and don’t forget the cemetery),

a seventeen-year-old boy with fresh stubble

and a backpack, not having given word to his family,

runs away to join the circus.

Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing appears in The Closed Eye Open, Corvus Review, Litbop, Magma, Spinozablue, The Fabulist, Cosmic Daffodil, and more journals.