My folded, torn, pastel maps lie spent
In my new desk. I will not hang them up.
Too many stars mark where I went, and
not funny anymore, my stories interrupt
The flow of life here.
Roads and tracks
Wove webs across the island, and we
Traveled freely, just to go. Instead of maps
A hive encloses -- the buzz of industry
Swallows whispers. I am unsatisfied.
Friendship binds me here, and what bound
Me, solitude. I learned decisions, tied
Only to desire.
Here, commitment found,
Fellow martyrs (not strangers) prostrate to 'we must'
And activity. A trip to Target, wanderlust.