He was making good time on the margin
of night. He was traveling fast on trips
down the road. The road was straight.
No voices came across the wire. The
radio was dead. He chose this moment
of non-being to save himself. He pulled
off at rest stop eight, west of nothing.
He borrowed the waitress’s pen and
a yellow pad full of doodles. He started
a list. Road signs came first, colored
blue against yellow. Multiple turns
built into what quickly became a map.
Memory grafted itself onto the table
next to him and wouldn’t let go. Hours
passed and they kept filling his cup
with forgiveness. They saw him weep.
People floated past him in echo.
Finally the kitchen shut down and he
was left with his own words. A bloody
trail worked its way down the page.
This is how it happens. One minute
you’re asleep and safe. Next door,
the moon pulls you out of your life.