I drove through eastern Colorado, through the treeless hills,
The towns sustained by prisons, bent on stopping for
The night almost within reach of the mountains, headed for
My boyhood home, the cheerless suburbs of Seattle. There,
I'd take my measure of the pretense and the soaring prices,
Traffic, the pervading gloom, the better to appreciate
The strangely sunny sort of gloom in which I suffocate
In this less precious place, far from the mountains,
Prison in a sense, but, at this point, where I call home.