We are not going down that road.
We have other places to be,
Other appointments, and I have
No idea where that one-way
Street ends. Look at it:
No lights, no traffic, nothing
But weather. Clouds and no doubt
Rain. We are better off
With our highway, curbs,
And a posted speed limit. Old,
Weathered roads are not efficient.
They end suddenly, go
Unexpected places, hold few
Chances to turn back. They
Were built by men who hauled things:
Wagons of grief and industry.
Good men, surely; but not wise
In the way of roads, the wickedness
Of going. It is not their fault.
After all, the architect of Hell
Was a just and merciful God,
Or simply God. Every so often
A road made by men is going
To stray, to cut itself off from its
Fellow roads and go in particular
No place. I’ll not take such a road.
I’ll not calculate that the desolation
Will cease so many miles hence
And the land turn resistant green again.
I see a road for what it is.
Travel. Transit and traffic
And the sound of an engine:
Enfolded in the brightly sharp ordinary,
The wheel in my hands, the pedals
Useless without me, and a known
Landscape running commonly, precisely past.
It is time to leave.
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