Living without gps
no one can run to, or from.
Travel up the common
to the junction of walk
and don't walk. Leave latitude
for the heart, its sextant lost
in the remains of route 66, or plot
I've got my spine I've got my Orange crush.
Broken mirrors vivisect the man, all roads lead
to Polaris, scattered bearings.
Find some other track side
noodling in the dark, people
losing time, lost being
lost between the Crux and nebulas.
Steer into the long way home, find
where found is hidden in the magnetic
resonance, images of small intestine
and appendix, the parallax of travel where
Richard Merrill is an unrealized poet. As well as an unrealized farmer, architect, Lego artist, and ultracyclist. It took him a while to accept the term; trucker. Lately he has realized he is very much that. He hopes the reader finds some merit in his work.