Forward Tread

Pack up and go.
The world is your oyster.
every footprint in the earth generates an impermanent impression
Of who each of us is as we walk on and walk away.

Ideas and people and discarded cigarette ends
linger inside the tread,

“Stay a while with me,” she says.

Sometimes we cling so tightly to one another;
Sometimes you cannot anticipate the depth,
Of the roots that clutch between two souls until they are torn
Free by the wind that whips around the car,
Staying the course.

“I can’t,” he replies, “I have to finish packing.”

I can’t,
He steps into the car.
I can’t,
As he backs out, he pops a piece of
Sweet mint gum between his teeth.
I can’t,
The self-proclaimed nomad eases himself
Slowly back into the comfort of his own psyche,
Safe from pain,
Lighter than his previous self,
He continues forward.