Monday, October 14, 2024

poem

 The Gift of Maps

There is a reason men like maps—

A man with a map is a man with a plan.

He’s on the verge of figuring it all out.

Any kind will do— political, thematic,

Topographic, pornographic, geologic,

Your basic road map.

The room silences watching him carefully unfold 

Accordion creases of Rand McNally’s finest

Across the span of the dining room table.

The look on his face is arcade enlightenment.

Rest assured, Dad will find the fastest route.


We all cling to the first map we ever got 

From way back when we were boys.

Usually it was a gift

From someone who loved us 

In lieu of a simpler love. 

My boy is in the process

Of getting one from me.

Of course he might not use it;

I would never force him to.

He may find another way to get

Where he thinks he needs to go. 

But it's nice to have a map

When you’re first starting out,

To see where you are and what’s ahead—

Landmarks to look out for,

Contingency detours in case 

Of heavy traffic or natural disaster. 


I still have mine

Folded up and tucked away 

In the secret drawer of my heart.

Every now and then I open it up

To remind myself of the beginning

And how I found my way out. 

It’s strange to look at it now—

Crude etchings of hills and rivers,

Verdant valleys and curving roads

All colored in crayon

Annotated in the wobbly hand

Of a child. Then I remember

I was never actually gifted one 

Like all the other boys—

I had to make my own.


10/14/24

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