You know, it is my job to love the road
as much as loving you. As what’s called home,
wherever that may be – without postcodes
or doorsills, bricks and mortar, steel and chrome,
walls that can hem things in. This elbow room
for neuroses, identity’s fuzzy cloud,
no pillow-talk, sheets of dusty perfume,
solitude, waxing and waning in the crowd.
Years of tarmac taken up to realise,
to give up the yearnings for residual,
to straddle two halves of the same whole.
Home’s the fringe of your lashes, pensive eyes,
patient lids. Home's also this burning fuel.
The slope, the bank, the turn, and the rare pothole.
As in most other years, I'm doing my own version of love poems to mark the month, though I'm not a big believer in V-day. Because love is the biggest deal of all but it is all in the day's work, month in and month out. It is the only work with any kind of job satisfaction guaranteed imo. You don't have to count the miles, you don't have to count the eggs, never mind the chickens, before or after they hatch. Everything, every little thing, counts, and nothing has to be counted. How super awesome is that?
And yeah, I'm getting there, I'm getting there, at my own pace, just like you. Sooner or later, the job will get done. And it just might not be over even then. How awesome too, is that?