NOTES FROM A ROAD TRIP, August 19-23, 2017
Nomads: I’ve seen them in a movie,
taking down their ger.
Everything goes with them:
the stove, the rugs and beds,
the painted chests. Maybe
if we took it all, too,
like those people with bus-sized RVs do.
But home would still be home.
The sun comes up later in the south
and it’s hotter. Every time we take
a long car trip we say,
“Next time, let’s stay home.”
(Is this a poem?)
The world’s worst coffee—is it
even coffee?—from the weird
machine in the hotel room.
Must constipation—or worse—
go with travel?
Why in the world did I sit
cross-legged for three hours
in the backseat of the car?
At least I got some knitting done.
Crepe myrtle is in bloom, and cotton.
This is the farthest south I’ve been in a car.
Today is the eeclipse, 96 percent
here. The place we were headed
will be 100% clouds so here we stay.
I’m just as glad. Who needs
another six hours in the car?
And now we’re home.
I lost two days of daily poems,
and gained a fearsome sciatica,
richly deserved. I reduced
the eeclipse to prose.
I’m still too close to write a poem.
Home is still here, with its overgrown
garden, and dog happy to see us
and cats as happy as cats ever are.
The moon, still dark,
still orbits us, and we still
turn around the sun,
and turn around again.