You’re at that point on the journey, familiarity
waning with every click of the speedometer.
You no longer know which negligible
blade of grass is actually your old house.
It could take days to find your way back,
despite the elastic light. The spaniel you left
pattering in the sprinkler
might as well be dead for all he remembers you.
It takes all your effort just to call for him,
and even then, the name catches in your throat
like a small burr, gets belligerent
with the wind, jousting a little
before getting sucked under your Michelins.
Through the rearview mirror,
you’re suddenly aware of firewood
jumping off your truck, a couple
of grey canisters, your old man’s tackle.
You don’t even care
that you are swerving. What was once a dot
on the map is now less than an afterthought,
a box of spare parts
banging together in the dark:
your neglected porch swing, a moth angry
with its lightbulb. Right now,
the instant is all you know: the sun
breaking out up ahead, contented fieldstone.
An elm you just passed, springing new growth.
The secret is not looking back.
