Freewrite to nowhere

 

Nowhere is a place, too,
with leafy trees
and traffic lights.

Someone has to put

dinner on the table

and do the washing up.

There are cardigans to button

and babies' earlobes

to nibble on.

And when the nowhere car 

is out of gas, we walk, walk, walk

past the nowhere coffee shops

and sidewalk tents

and dog parks,

the zinnia pots

chip wrappers,

bird splats

porch swings

wind chimes

ding-ding-a-ding.

In nowhere

we skip

all the way home

and cry and sing 

about all the nothings,

both sour and sweet.