If I were you, I wouldn't take a secondary road
as if there were a safer route
to paradise. You think
the cars will yield
and time will write a guarantee:
"You have played the right cards."
You're afraid
of a wreck, pulled sutures, loss. You want
to hide the warts
on your thigh, to keep the stillborn wrapped
in your chest, to table us, to double-check
(as if we audit). No. The highway home, pal, lies
through love, not fear. The guy
you hunt
is here
with open arms.
