Each town that I walk through
every person I talk to has the hue
of dull grey.
This day is no different from the last
another town passed
another chance wasted
my taste buds are chastened
I have hastened too long
I should settle down in  the next town
or maybe
these feet will betray me
again.

Footslogging ******* the days
finding the pathways that lead me nowhere
and I share this alone
in a muted tight groan that issues deep in my soul.
The hole that I've dug has become the shawl or the rug that warms me
warns me to go on
don't stop
not for no one.
The whisper that chants in my ears
seems to have gone on for years and for years,
and for years I have listened
lay in the dew that glistened as it dripped off the end my nose.
In a field by a road with a rose in my hand
I stand by the signpost that reads,
forty miles to the end by the bend in the lane.
I can't explain what that means
but it seems like I must go on
perhaps I've come to the end
or the place where they send
wanderers.

I wonder about this,
is this life giving me the kiss off
the big fix
the deep six
or is this a test?
Staying in the last town would have been best
but I've never been good at being that.
With my cane and my hat
and my clothes in a sack
I don't look back
never did.
Whatever is hid behind the shadows that slip behind hedgerows as I pass
shall remain secrets
and the towns which I slipped through that never knew me
saw through me
remain
unknown.