The streets line up
with empty cars, with that exquisitely blank
stare,

blinking, I try to gaze into the heart
of that grey and concrete path.

I ask the painted yellow lines for directions,
am faced with awkward silence;
pine cones roll across tarmac,
hoping for some more fertile
landing pad.

the path is not so straight, nor so fraught
with
blinking red and yellow lights.

Open your eyes and drink in the sweetness
of making your own map,
of being your own great compass.