another poem from the Cullowhee archives – Lost at night in Asheville

I took the wrong turn –
or missed my turn –
but still reached the poetry destination.
It’s easy to get all caught up
in structure and technique
when you are writing/reading prose –
but with poetry, anything can happen.

A friend – of a new friend,
and an old friend,
and a distant relative,
and a classmate –
introduced himself to me.
The world is so small.

And a homeless man sat at my table,
gathering change for a bus ticket
to Charlotte, he said.
I shook his hand but shushed him –
it was during the poetry reading –
as any good librarian would.
Though I had no cash,
I thanked him for his company.

There are plenty of gypsies
and monks – like me – in these hills.
These hills –  I am learning to love
their bending, curving,
never-ending ways –
they speak to the centripetal forces
already in my soul, and carve
a path of least resistance
through their mountain home.

December 13, 2014

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