Zip Code

The map on the table is creased and it’s torn,

it shows me the place where the guilt was first born.

Six years of driving to get out of sight,

but I’m looking at Omaha’s borders tonight.

I found a flat penny, all silver and thin,

squashed on the tracks where the tall weeds begin.

It says Omaha, stamped in a lopsided row,

but I know where it’s from, where the wild grapes grow.

Behind the high school, the Grain Belt sign swings,

hanging by one bolt and rusted-out rings.

It’s only a cent but it’s heavy as lead,

a memory rattling around in my head.