Roads I Knew

Every so often

I find myself

driving

on the roads of my hometown.

I need no map,

I need no guide.

Every inch

of every mile

is familiar.

So even as my mind

turns,

twists, and

tumbles at the thought

of the old days—

this cosmic sense

of familiarity

shows me the way.

I pass all the street signs.

The ones that used to have meaning.

It’s all sweet and hardly bitter,

for the fruit of the past

is one that doesn’t go rotten.

It simply loses its luster.

So as I find myself

driving down those roads—

I’d imagine an artist might paint me

wearing ruby slippers.

And maybe

That little old town

still harbors the light.

The very same that it once knew.