Where I will die
under a moon that is yellow
as the sun and celebrates
like it’s carnival, hungry
for some crawfish,
a little wisdom and some comfort.

It’s been a long wade
downstream with nothing
but brake lights, abandoned homes
and gray skies; pulling off a coup
as I run on fumes into the bayou and brush
off the dust of a long year
from Houston to Baltimore
by way of the great Northwest.

I never thought the asphalt would end,
take in a deep breath and wait
until I come calling; its secrets
sleeping on the routes and rural roads
left unexplored, forgotten
in the humid air rising
off Bayou St. John.

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