This is where I led my life:

A tiny trailer 
At the edge of open plains
At the edge of raging mountains
There is a wandering bull
That makes its way into my yard
Threatens my dog with its casual nature
A mailwoman that smiles and waves
A UPS man that thinks everyone in this little park
Lives at number thirteen
There is a truck I drive when I’m not sleeping
A place to sleep while I’m not driving 
A field to talk to when I have a day off

How can I say this
Is where I lead my life
When the roads I take 
Day after day
Only lead to and from
This little trailer
Don’t actually go
Somewhere


This is where she led her life:

A too big house with not enough room
Close to the bay
But not much else
There is a newly arrived feral neighbor
Raging about trees felled by howling wind
Threatening to sue for each broken limb
Left behind
A mailman that knows about the ants in the mailbox
An employer that can’t seem to remember her name
Or appreciate all she has done
She has done so much
It is a place to remind herself 
I am not there  

Or maybe we did not lead
Our lives at all
Or our lives were already led
And nothing remains
To be explored
Except to decide which direction 
To lay at night
While practicing our coffin pose

Written October 2020. Image by author.

Published by J M Greff

J M Greff is the rambling author, trucker philosopher, peace loving hippie, spiritual warrior, backpacking pantheist, wandering minstrel, and poet fool who created A Caravan of One for you. View all posts by J M Greff