The drive back felt long,
as if the hour and forty
minutes had multiplied,
the miles adding to themselves
as time and distance elongated
by recollections whole and fragmented.
I drove the roads I know and it
was like digging in a mine where
someone was yelling, “Get out
of there!” and I yelled back, “Not
yet!” the exchange tinted with some
unknown but felt fear that later
might conclude by some logic
beyond my understanding though
nothing I could deny. I drove and drove
and drove. Pulled into my driveway,
an hour forty-five but it felt like time
out of eternity, that reckless disregard
of time and place to be in what is called
now, memories the cartographers used making
the map as I drove. They waiting as I got
out of the car, unlocked the front door
and entered before I did.
-Byron Hoot
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