crossing illinois by Margaret Stacy

I miss your highways 

your tollways 

and truck stops 

smelled like cigarettes 

and freedom 

where the cashier 

with sun-scarred skin 

always smiled back 

and told me 

‘have a good day sweetheart’ 

through bits of food 

and golden crowns 

I miss your sunsets 

where I’d bike out 

into cornfields 

to watch the sun bleed 

through ears of gold 

and the emerald stalks 

that held them high 

I miss your windmills 

like diamonds to a child 

gentle giants 

that line the horizon 

see them glide against 

the wind and wave back to me 

I was always shouting 

‘windmill! windmill!’ 

like I’d never seen anything 

that reached the sky 

I miss your 

apocalyptic beauty 

so empty and alive 

like the eyes of 

field mice 

we used to get in 

our basement 

after it rained 

like the black water 

that flooded our sump 

churning 

like the night sky 

stars burning 

bright against it 

and I miss your people 

from Carbondale 

to Chicago 

from trailer parks 

to the Mag Mile 

I miss your commitment 

to happiness 

and the Cracker Barrels 

along I-57 

where we used to stop 

on road trips 

where my dad bought me 

bubblegum 

and circus peanuts 

where I shared 

with a farmer’s kid 

and a lawyer’s kid 

and they both 

were wearing 

overalls