Pray the road is long.
—C.P Cavafy, “Ithaka”
Sometimes it’s like this—
the journey to yourself is not
creeping barefoot on sharp rocks
nor crawling through the desert,
nor being pummeled by hail in steep territory—
yes, sometimes, though you’re wind-whipped
and sun-flushed and sandy and wearing borrowed shoes,
a new friend will meet you
just as you are and say,
I have an idea—
and will pull the brown dust covers off
of a shapely heap in the corner of the garage
to reveal a neoclassic Excalibur Phaeton,
impossibly shiny and shamelessly black
with a silver sword ornament agleam on the hood,
a cream leather interior
and a 5.0-liter engine—
and even though you don’t know what that last part means,
you know that the only right answer
is yes, please.
Yes, sometimes, the journey
to yourself comes with a chauffeur and
a guide who tell you stories as you ride
and both insist you need ice cream,
you choose salt caramel,
then they buy you fine chocolates
for tomorrow’s road—
and the fireflies come out
like the small miracles they are
making the sparkles they’ve evolved to make,
and the rain doesn’t come
and the night smells like roses,
yes, sometimes the journey is just like that.
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