drove
many routes
to find the gold.
Singing on street corners,
rhyming for dimes
and quarters,
Searching sensations
to find the map,
only left him further
from his goal.
Showered shaved
shot up hope
in a golden syringe,
filled his tank
and headed out
towards those
blue mesa hills.
He, of course, could
not find the route,
confusion
became
his only best friend.
He
spins and spins
whirling dervish
disoriented,
there was no gold in dizziness
when he spotted it
he
spun
right past it
gone in a direction unknown.
The driver drives
many routes tonight,
spots many islands of neon,
he finds silver in her arms,
copper in the dice,
brass in the door handles,
diamonds in the rough,
he finds dirt for his grave.
There was no other gold
along the way
there was only the gold
of living
and that
had already been delivered.
Though this poem is not about him, r headed up to the blue mesa (his creation, the blue mesa) and hasn't been seen since, if anyone sees him, tell him we miss him.