like folds in a map,

traces of memory in the mind

creased, wrinkled

often difficult to find


it has been said that all roads lead to Rome

that any distant travel

will only lead you home


and some will always carry their hopes

in packs of twenty,

brown paper sacks and plastic baggies


so it at least appears that

all trips

are alike

in the end


but, when you set down

your road

for where ever

you

are bound


how many will you have

crushed or killed,

how much benevolence and philanthropy

will be ascribed to your name?


how many will have loved you,

or will know that you loved them?


how many will wish you dead,

or themselves,

because of you?


we are all capable of carrying potholes

in our pockets


some folk find it

personally pleasing

to sprinkle them

liberally

along the paths of others


and some have the odd habit

of tossing such silly tricks

along their own path, as well


what curious cure,

this folding away of paper,

wrapping dead fish

and old news

into oblivion

carry it to the graveyard,

give it to the

skinny white lady

keeper of bone white parchment

upon which all names

are written,

sooner, later, sudden,

it is unknown,

the predilections

of that tall clock that ticks

in the darkness and

on the top of each day


bottle up

and settle up

and lay cakes and eggs

at the feet of Cerberus,

for the hound must feed

and better upon this,

than you


find a light to shine

a warmth to share,

if friends and comforts be absent,

then create as much

and put them there