So a man drives around late at night
avoiding all the streets that lead home.
He knows lights are still on
that those who love him
are gathered round the table
talking, wondering what could have gone wrong.
They don’t understand why it takes him
so long to return form simple chores.
He doesn’t understand why
in spite of all the street signs,
in spite of all the maps scattered on the seat,
he would rather be lost.
Sometimes he even rolls down the windows
and lets maps fly;
he tosses out flashlights and matches
and says to himself,
Let’s just see how fucked up things can get.
They know this is not the way things should be.
He knows this is not the way things should be.
But he hopes,
searching black streets alone
in the minutes closing on midnight
with gas running out,
he might find a second home
with those who know where he’s been.
From Feeding the Crow (Plain View Press) and The Road Home (Dalton Publishing)
For my thoughts about writing this poem, follow this link.