Who could ever forget?
Riding all night on that half-empty Greyhound,
waking in the alone notime darkness of Nebraska
waking to the smell of gristmill corn, being filled,
mistaking, in half-sleep, the scent of being in love again…
Traveling other roads, 1972
I find my child gets half-fares
As, gingerly, my wife and I walk him
In the silver-green grass of still another
or, picking out Salinger’s Nine Stories
in the terminal in Chicago, devouring the book
understanding little but riding it home anyway.
That’s what it was like, being seventeen in 1965.
The passions do not change,
stones sweeping chaos into maelstrom,
To find love
To be free