Flyover States

I study my face in the fluorescent light,
rough and scrubbed bare as a tennis ball.
I’ve lost track of whether being alone
was a choice. In meetings I sit in a cold
metal chair surrounded by other alcoholics,
my notebook open, scribbling quotes
about self-esteem, but if I bring the wrong pen
the words look like snow piles on an empty page
and I spend the hour angry with myself.
I live in the largest city on the eastern seaboard.
In the flyover states there’s a family
with a three-car garage and a life I’m embarrassed
to admit I want. They know more than me,
those farmers like fishermen, hauling in
barrels of husks. Salt of the earth, heart of the sea.