I am somewhere in January
where the champagne does not reach.
These are the forgotten miles. My state
is in the rearview. llinois dribbles
in front of me like an atlas.
My headlights are foggy-- it's whiteout;
the highway jumps like a shadow.
Even at a standstill, I am lost. The numbers
on the dashboard keep climbing,
but I do not move with them.
My trunk is heavy; it is more prepared
than I am. Moving forward, but I
can only think about what's left behind.
There are no fresh starts. I am
the baggage I bring along.
Your photographs give me papercuts.
The radio is fizzling out,
but I can make out one word: home,
except my car's pointed the opposite way.
----
apr 19, 2017
everything's going downhill!!
YOU ARE READING
watterson
Poetryan experimental attempt to write a poem a day for the month of april spoiler alert: i did it
