My home is 83 miles from where I am – I used to wonder if I walked those miles backwards could I take time with me? One mile after another – undoing each year I misspent – each year on the wrong medication – each year in the wrong city, with the wrong guy, allergic to someone else’s cat.
I am good at going backwards and I know the way without a compass – the telephone poles with thick bubbles of tar I stuck my fingernails in – the pizza place with that jukebox playing outdated hits – the salad dressing that stunk like the boy’s locker room and dripping armpits
I am not surprised by bridges – there are many – I run my hand on the rails – I look at the cracks beneath my feet – remembering my fear of falling – mile after mile the smell of the city leaves and low tide welcomes me to the bay – over my shoulder I see floating docks buoys dune reeds waving to me
How much time has been taken?
