Did I see you through the imaginary lenses again that day?
In your too big Nike’s, dragging an old tattered suitcase ready to quit long before you’d even contemplate letting up
Inside a crumpled map and a few shirts that stunk of the dead fish up the creek they’d been cleaned in

I stopped for gas even though I was full, and I almost wanted to believe that you were a mirage of love I’d never feel again
I wore an Aubrey Hepburn dress and had just been called a **** for the third time that week by some **** with a confederate flag sticker on his truck
I wondered if that made me dream you, soft, with your arms open yelling, “MOMMMMMM,” as you moved as quickly as you could towards me in giant shoes without laces

I tried to imagine what the old couple in the field thought when they saw you emerge, wide yawning out of the brush
Or the woman who brought you to the train station and asked what your mother would think about you walking New York as you held back your all encompassing laughter

Some may call it a mental break, but I knew better, I knew you were performing poetry in motion
Maybe even a months worth of writing yielded from that trek,
and as I pictured you growing in a way I couldn’t, I wished that I could take off the glasses that made the world vanish and you illuminate

I wanted so badly to chase you into the brush, to sleep rough, to forget for a moment the **** on the walls I’d have to scrub in the wee morning hours later on

Instead I shouted back, “DAAAAAAAD,” embraced your toned and warm body, and told you it was about time for a joint