Nobody comes here
who is not lost or home.
3 pm: the hour of housecats whiskering
across open-palmed backyards
while cars shark up this hill
much too fast.
The road’s a double nothing: it splits
into tarry hoops of cul-de-sacs
that slingshot all cars
back the way they came.
In passenger seats
people shake their maps like babies.
6 am: the sun’s barely a blister
on the horizon’s thumb and a runner,
new to town, chisels
up the street,
meets the club foot of one dead end.
Back at the fork, lactic patches
on his high-vis legs,
he tries downhill and gets
Twice in a row and he believes he’s arrived
in some nightmare town
which he now fears
he might never escape. The highway,
close enough to burr in the ear,
promised him order
but here he’s mazed
in these two ends, bent
on staying dead.
1 February 2018