The Joy of Wrong Turns
You shut your eyes and see it.
The city. One of many.
Lights and lines.
Stretching streets full of strangers,
each with a story. A smorgasboard
for a soul like you,
a creature in need of wandering,
of new places to be still in,
new stories to digest.
You always talk to strangers.
You always have. You are not sure
if this is a good trait or bad.
Probably at your age, it is fine.
No one wants to kidnap and old man.
You are your journeys.
That is what age has taught you.
Beautiful places and barren,
most particularly the wrong turns
that have inevitably led you
About this poem
I had a conversation earlier today about travel, and how, in this time of staying close to home, something vital is missing in my life. And that set me off on thoughts of journeys, to places you would recognize, and places you would not. Each one our own. Each one contributing to transformation.
Most of my biggest mistakes and wrong turns have led to darkness, and then…. amazingness. God is good.
From all that, this poem. The city, obviously, is New York. I miss it.