Thursday, February 28, 2019



Crossing America


We hitchhiked America. I

still think of her.

I walk the old streets thinking I

see her, but never.

New buildings have gone up.

The bartenders who poured roses

into our glasses are gone.

We are erased.


Minook, Illinois,

one street out of nowhere through cornstalks.

Winter clutched the cornfields into Chicago.

Cold, we couldn't get in out of the cold.

But a lonely filling station owner risked

letting his death in out of the night.

I lay on his gas station floor and let her

use me for a bed.

I will never forget the cold into

my kidneys or lying awake bearing the

pain while she slept like a two month

old child on the hill of its mother's tit.

It was on the stone floor

that I knew I loved her.


just a portion of this excellent long poem by
Leo Connellan
Crossing America
Penmen Press, 1976