w i n t e r
addiction
I lost the station on 54 East
fumbling with the dial I looked up lost,
the road unfamiliar, I pulled into a station
to get smokes and gas before heading back east.
Bell flowers bordered the tired road
a Sunday morning by the Baptist bell
I watched mothers hustle girls with flowers
in their hands past the border
of station pumps, and I felt tired
knowing I had to drive much further down the road.
There is little choice in what I do
putting in distance between here and there.
To be true I understand little;
I reconcile that I gave up choice
long ago by asking for what
I cannot have, and looking for it in all that I do.
goodnight 9.27.00