You decide to take back roads, get off
this jeezless highway, take a look around
why don't you, different part of your brain,
part of your past, mother mixing porcupine

meatballs, where the hell did that come from,
the world skinnier then, all you had to do
was open a can, all you have to do is rake
your memories into piles and cart them

to the curb, past a store with tar paper shingles
closed for good, no not for good but because
everyone moved on, moved out, the ocean
rushing through them, through us, on its way,

who knows where, past a maple with an enormous
burl, grandpa with a similar enormous bump
behind his ear, endlessly fascinating, until
it wasn't, until it was just an empty chair,

a TV with a test screen, rooms full of people,
people full of rooms, spiders with front row seats
letting the wind lift them into a tangled night,
Cars may not stop, the crosswalk tells you,

but you know that, know getting older the scenery
fades, a world of corridors and closets, each
with a secret passage, a place to venture so your
head won't explode, but still your head explodes.