Beyond the sounds of tires
on gravel, the dust kicked up

and hanging above the roadway,
beyond the parking loops with

their maps and permit warnings,
barren with SUVs, creosote-soaked

posts, and the anticipatory air
of those about to leave a place,

you encounter someone you abandoned
the last time you where here:

with grit in his underwear, itchy scalp,
mosquito welts, dirty fingernails,

and the familiar promise of blisters,
he grins through a ruffled beard

at the ridiculous fact of your
presence in all this wider truth.

You while away hours waiting for
some of it to come close to hand --

under the stars, bound to the dirt by
nothing but the simple pluck of gravity

-- waiting till the time ends
and distance recedes, and you return

where no one exists
who can call you back home.


Portland, 10 October 2003

Food for Tots:

A Voting Rationale