The low road bears your name,
wet, heavy, hard to read
each letter stretched close enough to forever,
a code understood only by those who have lived inside you,
behind the mess and smell,
in a hole small enough to permit no movement
no progress forward.
The high road doesn’t exist.
Left on a middle road,
searching for something known in my veins
but never by me,
there are only shades of grey.
It’s easy to get lost on any trip,
to turn in circles, forget north, due west, and home.
It’s easy to blame the road,
search for signs,
hunt for letters and names.
It’s easy to walk past the truth of the journey
time, time, time and again,
to build your vaunted high road
out of sticks and stones
and walk there in lockstep
with everyone you said you were.