they say that this is the best time of your life
to explore
but I have been there and been dissatisfied
rolling hills
misty mornings beneath the dew of trees
paved roads
a highway hitch and a stranger to talk to
time passes
I am home now but remember
only pieces
existing and fading in memory

I remember the sunlight
the morning heat rising with the California Sun
casting its shadows on the concrete
descended from the Morongo mountains
to a crowded truck stop
the morning glow on the taco bell
a longing for something
now I sit in the Maine cold
feeling the same thing

on the drive home
every time gets shorter
repetition results in less new
could this be true
for other things?
could it get easier the more I do?
or does time just pass me by

i cannot breathe
out of my nose
one must think
of all the times
I could

the bowling center
where a kingpin once stood
among the Whitney hotel
or in the dusty Kerouac motel
with its panels of wood
he tried again to do something he once could
which was never writing poetry

The leaves are brown
I drive along the highway
My mind focuses on the pond aside me
Evoking a feeling of worry
Drowning, opaque,
Obscuring the unknown
In the wind
Nothing but silence
Gentle melancholy