Drawling between muffled greetings and lingering el’s,
Pine cones smile to tell the existence of a
New Jersey that was never glamorous enough to sanctify on television.
Tractors and farmlands, grins that spell words like frickin’ and
Breffast and sawl, these Germanic beer halls that reminisce
Upon earlier immigrants with pink cheeks and some other sort of
Dream that may or may not have been forgotten.
You’ve never written out your name in pine needles but you’ve
Laid a path for those who wander to return home, though the
Wish to wander has never been strong enough.
Based on today’s NaPoWriMo prompt.