I wonder, do I do this for myself,
the guy who will wear a pair of pants
until frayed and holey, rather than
spend on himself? Should I care
if someone sees my rags, these
corduroy ramblings of a guy
with heart shredded and soul worn through?
Such falling red-leaf questions
come more and more in my autumn days,
hiding my path, while the daylight
of life grows shorter,and there’s
more darknessyet to record
than ink in my well.
I remember I’ve been here before,
tired, discouraged, the Panther panting
down my neck. That’s when I made tracks,
just like these, putting distance
between thorn-torn obsession and
naked oblivion, breaking a trail
no one else could see and even I
didn’t know was there.
I do this because if I don’t
no one else will, always staying
just east of sunset so I can map
the way to the next bend out of
our trackless wilderness.