a reason to run

The dog has died and I am still going,

too responsible for waking the widow

with the bass in the car, or late nights

when bedroom light soaks the street in

more than rain, more than the remains

of the cat rundown and flattened into

pavement. I am no stranger to driving

past the same places every day, to sand

in the sheets, memories no longer easy

to fall asleep with, and time still too far

behind in processing it’s passing; an hour-

glass tricking make haste, model after a

space filled too quickly, and if I break again,

promise not to grovel, but to leave a mark

before going, from Great Kills to Tacoma,

closer to a beginning I never had a reason

to chase. And if I find myself having made

it only an hour out of town, hear the howl

from home and cannot refrain from turning

toward it — names will stay cut into stone,

the road not soon forgetting.