It’s like your move-along ass
had somewhere to go, the map unfolded
but the territory closed until further notice,
day breaking over your head
like a rotten, uncooked egg,
a dozen in-your-face door slams
& it’s not even noon, dead bolts thrown,
curtains drawn: Go away!
It’s like riding naked on the back of a
Harley in the dead of winter,
every crack and crevice of your being
assaulted by cold,
your sleeping bag soaked,
a shiver and shake like a near-death rattle,
keeping you conscious, keeping you going.
It’s like a fall from a high place,
the ground rising up to meet you at speed,
limbs flailing, questions of will it hurt,
will it be swift and painless, or
will your guardian angel swoop in
at the very last second to lift you high
above this desolation, your unravelling story
just a so-far footnote in the Bigger Picture.
Ah, but when she tells you to take heart,
pilgrim, for you are loved—it’s like
you almost believe her.
Tim Rudolph is a poet living in Santa Cruz, CA.