For Jack London
The idea is a vibrant thread—or is it a scar
left by a blade of hair, the memory of an ice flash?
Vibrancy ignites his oil lamp, the end
of a match. He strikes…
There: The story of a man lost
in the wild. He can’t build a fire, but dreams
of cutting open a dog so he can crawl inside. Somewhere
he’s blowing into his mittens—a thread clings
to his scabbed lips. Smiling, he cracks
them open, whistles a dog call.
In 9th grade, my Geography teacher showed me pictures of Route 66. Dylan unintentionally describes it best: "A highway of diamonds with nobody on it."
After my sister was born, My dad sold his motorcycle (didn't want to risk an accident). He keeps one of the gears--at least i think it's a gear, a tiny wheel i used to spin just to smell the metal on my fingers--in his desk drawer.
Recently, I discussed with another American how the longer we're abroad, the more we think of home; not wistfully, but in comparison. At home, there's so much space. We put up billboards just to make the sky smaller.
I said "Waffle House."