Dark Matter

When I move, you move…

Truckstop, train station, bus station,
airport, port;  remember when those
were the easy way out,
and no one watched you leave?
Remember sticking a thumb out on the highway?
The all-American way
to travel, depend on the “we’ve all been there”
thing…except we haven’t
and “we” means nothing anymore,
if it ever did, if it was ever anything more
than an illusion.  
Good old flag-wrapped dreamtime,
the American walkabout,
legend woven into collective self.  

When I move, you move…

Try to recall what it was like.
Tell yourself
we used to trust one another.  
Tell yourself
travel was a communal experience
and no one except small town cops
ever patted you down,
and they always let you go on your way
after taking the weed you’d hid in your sock.  
you didn’t care much
because weed was cheap
and no…

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About Léa

A wanderer who has found home and herself in the South of France.
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