shivered on the side of I-75 in the middle of nowhere
awaiting anything or anyone to listen
to our suffering, to warm our souls.

For, we had taken the road less travelled, and grew ourselves
an outside tough, we listened only to ancient words and hummed
and never gave a sip of life that had not been written down by an ancient
genius,
nor ever looked up to see besides the imagining
we lived.
And met you, I did, while reading, EE Cummings
you  had Emerson open.