If I fell into Robert Frost’s poem,
it wouldn’t matter which road I took,
I’d get lost anyway.
I would call you to confess that
I’d daydreamed past street signs,
forgot to count the stop lights, and
now the road is as unfamiliar to me
as the poetry at my destination is to you.
You’d ask what I see out the window,
then tell me to go up two blocks, or turn
around and go back six where there will
be a red brick church across from a diner
at the intersection that will take me where
I need to go. You always know exactly
where I am — Mission Control to this
perpetually off-course satellite — who
will return to find you asleep in the light
of the muted TV, the cat curled on your
chest, his head at your chin, your
hand on the phone beside you —
waiting to talk me home.
This poem first appeared in Exit 13 Magazine.
Copyright by Linda Radice 2007.
Used with the author’s permission.