A man drives many miles before he
gets out, and runs down the road
until his car is no longer in sight.
He is stopped by something invisible,
a scent perhaps, which reminds him
of the small town of his youth,
or something he wanted to say years ago.
The familiar freshness of morning
turns the man in the direction from which he came.
Suppose he left the door ajar,
would the warmth of his earlier presence remain?
And if he ran back toward the car
past trees full of laughter,
he would remember days he wanted to forget;
but if he ran forward,
he would fall in love with a woman
who would caress his broken jaw,
and he would come to hate the
balled up in his throat.