We keep our hands hid up our sleeves to keep the chapped skin from the cold, missing hanging off the heat of the stove. Yr prodigal son’s cup overflows. Yr arrogant boy won’t call home. Yr idiot wind just blows. “Home is where the heart is,” but my heart has never been complacent – binge drinking on vacation until waking up frozen and naked, skin rough and grey like pavement, and if I ever had potential, where it used to stay is vacant. June 16th, dude: I want to be disowned. I want the only expectations chained to my neck to be my own, so when the weight is too much and leaves my back disjointed, I’m the only person whom I've disappointed. Midwest midwinters and microwave dinners; the only people who call me call me a sinner; foot caught in the river as the ice gets thinner; we’re licking the liquor but the taste’s so bitter; we fuck and we shiver; we both beg to differ; the snow on the street clothes the crashes with glitter. Dorothy, I've got humility, but the human kindness melts within. Keep me caught on yr skin with yr safety pins and honey, have some sympathy, I only ever wanted to be Craig Finn. I heard it’s a town full of losers, so I thought at least I’d fit in. Tap my heels thrice: I want to go back home. I want the only expectations chained to my neck to be my own, so when every obligation has been completely avoided, I can run from Minneapolis and hide out in my fortress. Two summers wasted with nothing written. Two years through, dude, with nothing new, and every opportunity afforded me, I threw away with gusto. Now I’m sleeping on the bus home, head pressed against the window.