If you want to know the way
out here,
I’ll tell you.
Drive and drive.
The road goes up and down, to and fro.
If you want to come visit,
I’ll invite you.
My old man won’t know
the difference
between you and billy-be-damned.
He’s been wearing out old thoughts—
holes now in plenty.
Fewer in his drawers.
And he’s not keen on new ones.
We lay the bricks of conversation.
Block one. Block two.
Small. Tidy.
Start again.
Solid. Reassuring.
Four windowless walls.
Roar up the drive. Spit gravel. Blow your horn.
I am gnawing through myself.