Hometown
I have memorized this way of thinking
a road that stretches across the darkest hours
the kind you learn young by the feel of its curves
dips of sunken pavement you could drive blind
the foot moves between pedals
before I am aware, automatic motion and emotion
fused into neural pathways, reflexes travel through the body
the way headlights always find the broken glass
clinging to the rotting wood of a windowpane
on the old barn, rounding
the corner past the graveyard, past
the tombstones for fuel tanks they used to call a gas station
I want to forget this way but there is no other
maybe I can forget this whole town, fallen
left for dead as leaves lifted, floating
in the wake of passing tires
maybe I can unlearn this place
hold my breath when the doctor hits my knee
breathe hard through the tap of the hammer, the impulse
to hit the blinker and make that turn
drive down dark roads that scare me back home
maybe I can close my eyes and grip the wheel
believe that this map unfolds, that if I let go
there will still be road
one more gentle to know and less cruel to learn