Your map of the city sounds like a record
come to the end in a hissing coma
backsliding tone arm non-plussed
by the snare beat nipping at your heels.
Acetate overlays congeal in frozen layers
street grid visible underneath, your stuttered
declaration of faith a broken black line
binding a good day’s work into a tidy parcel
you fit neatly in the suitcase
with the telescoping handle
a grounded pilot dragging a string
of crash landings smoking through a gleaming terminal
tiny plastic wheels dissolving in a frenzy
of a thousand small bites.
Our maps cross paths
well-honed knife on a steel, keen edge
a tightrope, balance parceled out in motes
God in His wisdom, keeping you honest.
I nodded in passing last night
heading home, north on Main
crossing gates down at Lincoln
looking for you in the rearview mirror
Lebanese takeout on the front seat
cooling a little with every heedless boxcar.