A wall of wind at my back,
I steer November streets,
cracked by Jack Daniels, no sleep.
Dive bar behind, I stride, fearless
as eighteen years ago, although
I know bad things come to those
who wait. I refuse to heed good
advice: my reckless streak –
an unfortunate trait. Raised in
eight cities, habitual moves
got in my blood. These circadian grooves
are flawed by the drive to go go go.
Don’t test me. I’ll just make you sad.
Home is not a word I know.
Gypsies are too tight knit.
I feel kin with cowboys:
the open road, the grit
of no noise but coyote cries
and wind. In my element
anonymous or alone,
near imaginary tumbleweeds I sit
or rest my head on bone.
The country’s wide and wild.
I don’t buy the homestead bit.
I trust the moon’s guise, its wily
gaze, its light, bent. I sin while
dust collects in my red-brown hair.
I’ve never been from anywhere.