Trip
No one is here with me,
I have warm plastic between my fingers,
My left hand flies along next to me.
Sunburn has crept up on my sallow skin,
And bleached my cropped hair.
Now so far from a home, bed in my back seat,
I will get there and see it.
There is a peace in remembering,
There is a peace in moving,
There is a peace in seeing.
My freest clothes are packed and my hair is un-brushed.
My camera bounces at my breast, reminding me to catch
Those little moments I long for.
I want the beauty of the world
In my hand I want to hold it.
Just to touch it.
The repugnant taste of poverty is alluring for my lenses, but my right foot responds by sinking.
I stop in remote areas, and picnic by glass rainbows
With cats and dogs
And sometimes a hitchhiker
Without that look in his eye.
I imagine my own sign.
I chuckle to myself and drive on with the sun and the horses in the fields.
The gasoline is strong and I am young.
| 
