Something I rolled out about 9,000 miles ago, had totally forgotten about, and found one day when I was shuffling through files on my desktop. Nothing special about it except how I felt reading it again.
To market and back,
To cash a check,
To get more gas,
To fuel a life
That feels too still.
165,962 miles.
What if they stretched on,
End to end, over,
Around each other, and Winding through?
What if they didn’t stop,
Never brought me back here,
Never laid me to rest
In my own, well-worn imprint?
165,962 miles to where I could be.
I could tie knots, score patterns,
Draw portraits on blacktop
with the invisible trails I leave
as I ribbon through dots on the map.
I could steer by the wind,
Picnic everywhere that’s pretty,
Pluck fruit from strange trees,
and pies from strange sills
as an odd, drifting hobo.
165,962 miles to who I could be.
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