Can I have jet lag in my own
life, accumulated minutes,
routine, habit, catching-up with
me, the sameness
heavy as sand, a prairie
empty of joy, swept by
tumbleweeds of
discarded plans, eventualities
ossified and thin as years
spent out here.
Here where the map folds and
contentment catches in other lives
easy as lint.
Favorite CD’s rotate on shuffle,
illusion of variety.
I go to the river, drawn by the
hunger of eagles, knowing that
next Sunday they will be on display
like cold cuts, on special at the
super market.
Avoid the sale. Turn your coupons
into confetti. Or, set them on fire.
Mapquest yourself a path
to another continent.