He arranges memory on the deck
mind-naming cloud shapes as they break apart,
one a suggestion of Toulouse-Lautrec
from bright games sharing knowledge of fine art.
In dusk’s fall he watches the light decrease,
no longer burnishing the sombre sea.
Holding hands, they had seen Cape Barren geese
arrowing to The Sisters Islands, v-
shaped in perfect symmetry, marine wind
not ruffling them, sleek over waves’ white-tops.
His return ferry looking becalmed limned
on slate sky, he wants time back, re-run, stops
reminiscing, rises to mix a drink,
recalls he quit, returns to sit and think.

Footsore, hot, he totes his needs in a pack,
t-shirts, tobacco, tourist info, tent,
diaries, discount vodka, on his back
through towns’ censure because he pays no rent,
to their limits where he bums the next ride,
artwork taped to atlas for a stark sign.
To pitch camp he leaves the road, crowds inside,
hears the wheels of freedom’s mesmeric whine,
eats, reads, by torchlight in arbored places.
Mexico, he tells drivers who ask where?
This idea blazes in their rapt faces,
prime years fast eddying soon stripped bare.
To evade regret’s hound haunting old age
he logs latent miles, rattling duty’s cage.