As one who writes poetry, I tend to seek answers, in my poems, to nebulous questions, thus the answers (the poems themselves, I suppose) are nebulous also, or at least they seem to be. They seem nebulous because they seem complex, even in their simplicity. I like to go on road trips, so road trips also serve as a metaphor for me. They push and pull me, and as much as they free me, they also enslave me, in an odd sort of way. I’m still working on that enigma. So this is a poem that attempts to address that issue.

 

The highway offers coy refuge,

From Neverland to Baton Rouge,

From New Orleans to Myrtle Beach;

The towns are there, just out of reach.

There are places we have been

We think we’d like like to see again.

But like shadows in the sun,

We are blinded on the run.

Never stopping, on the move,

As if we had a point to prove,

We have only one relation

That determines destination:

It’s the mileage on the map.

The GPS is just a trap

That makes us think we’re marking time,

Just like meter, just like rhyme.

Time is measured but it robs,

Space is just between the knobs

Of the dashboard of the car,

Gas we’ve spent and miles so far.

The map of the United States

Resembles what’s served on the plates

Of truck stops cross the great divide:

Lots of chicken, country fried.

There is someplace left to go,

That’s the solace we must know,

As we pull out on the road

With nothing but a laden load.

         — Peter