YOUR JOURNEY MAN
I figured there was a way to get to you.
With my inner GPS. My natural
farm-fed Mapquest.
I was like this compass in jeans and t-shirt.
A sextant who, with the aid of the stars,
could measure the angular distance between two objects
and work from there.
And I boasted sails the wind had plenty of time for.
A fleet of fast cars - well one at least.
Yes, my stupidity had more than enough tools.
The idea was to just keep moving,
to follow whatever tracking device
was working most proficiently
in a vehicle that best devoured the distance.
My heart was restless.
My mind buttered itself up with possibilities.
It was a case of
I know where you are.
I'm headed that way.
Just try and stop me.
If I understood anything about myself
it was this primordial determination.
For hadn’t I burst from the womb
wailing and resolved.
So I even arrived exactly where intended.
Then you had to go tell me
you were not my destination after all.
I could have strangled Rand.
I could have shot McNally.
John Grey has recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.
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