There Yet
       

The map is a lie, a blasted web.
I'll never forget you, the water is sefe,
and we're almost there, dear.
America's broken word: follow
the open road, strike gold,
and live in a white house.
You can't get therefrom here
is more like it.
                        Still I love
the map: junction towns, rail
and river, lakes of depthless blue
on mint green expanses, flat as
news on a page, no easy way in.
To a bird's eye all explorable,
exploitable. You. Are.
                        Here. Where
barbed wire lines old Route 66.
If you would go farther, unfold
more map. There transcendence
lies, fiction the lifelong traveler
is daily reborn to believing.

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Copyright © 2017 A.E. Stringer All rights reserved
from Asbestos Brocade
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission