Charleston, south,
to Asheville, north,
a horse blanket,
a bottle of bourbon
battled before ale,
bested by night
with a soundtrack of
bluegrass banjo
and fireflies.
A mere stop-off
on the poetic road
under stars and sun
of which my eyes
try to find the horizon
where the journey
is half the destination
and the aftermath
is all of the art.
Onward worrying my way
to the steel shine of the Midwest
where Chicago eats the wind
of Lake Michigan
and I dance and quote
comedy and jazz,
while turning the tide
seems to be riding high
of the gamble truth
and newness and air.
Many stops behind me,
markets and memories,
however humble and mine
to be remembered only,
traversing as trouble,
shedding her and her and her,
hoping against hope
that this middle bring merriment
where once was simple
cold storage shed of heart;
I think so.