Last night I played with maps

and skated odd sidewalks in my sleep
sniffing the burned down house,
the soggy newspapers on Wild Bill's stoop.

Parking is limited near the trailhead.

Close-toed shoes advised.

Snakes appreciate this habitat.

The shallow pond whispered and wove "Mercator projection" through warp and weft, under Tropics of Cancer and over Greenwich Mean Time.

A trip is not a celebration of space and rails and distant horizons.

A trip is a story problem of schedules, lines, time zones, and baggage claimed.

When the locomotives crash who will drive the golden spike?

If You Drive, Drive Safely!

Rub the small stone offered and described by the happy girl.  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The small round stone unjumps with grace:


Thank you for sharing without a net
navigating by the stars alone

Hanging onto your ticket stub

© 2013 Nancy L. Ruder


Kathleen said...

This is like a poem!

Collagemama said...

Thanks, Kathleen!