We bought a map of the world
At the dollar
Store
And taped it up on your garage’s white
Wall.

And we put tacks on it—red tacks, at first
Like they do in the
Movies—
But we had so many places to
Mark
And the red tacks ran
Out
And so we had to use
Blue tacks
And pink tacks
And green sticky notes
And sharpie marker.

Do you fancy yourself a traveler?
You asked of me
When we promised empty, hasty, careless dreams
On a nonchalant summer supported by
A flat paper world

Of a million park benches left to sleep on,
Of a million eye-like windows left
From which to watch the moon,


Of a million shoulders of comings-and-goings
To brush against,
Of a million more crowded streets left
To get lost in;

Forever there are rows of train seats left on which to
Slouch,
More backs of the heads of taxi drivers
To stare at as the
Passing trees scrape against the clouds,

A million quasi-alive radio stations left to
Mind absent-mindedly
As we drive upon
An infinite glowing high way,

More groggily pleasant mornings in
Breakfast restaurants,
A million paper cups of coffee left,

A million libraries left—
Think of all the print you could ever yearn for
And multiply it by a thousand—
There are more books and poems and plays left
Than even that;

And there are a million clean pools left,
In rich houses,
And there are a million dirty pools left,
In apartment complexes,

And there are more beaches—
Think of all the grains of sand we have left
To get on our ankles!

More electric sunsets and more
Campfires,
An abundance of dark theatres with phantomized silver
Faces
Glowing on the
Screen,

More full-awake nights
By the buzz of some
Blooming city;

A mountain of ravers to hear,
A million more strangers to eye sparingly across the
Chess table,
And more rolls of photographs that we might keep
Or lose, or delete, or burn;

A million lies to tell;
A million more dead ends.

And still billions of people that will insist
That we must shave and keep our scalps buzzed.

You promise there is a place out there
Where we can let our hair grow long again