Poetry

Old School

Will there be anyone left who can read a map
when the grid collapses? Those creased
accordion sheets of
codes
colors
lines
and
numbers
once free at every gas station
and motel
I kept one from
everywhere
in case I found myself
in some faraway
there
unexpectedly
I would know where to turn
without a disembodied voice
telling me

Categories: Poetry

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