This Poem

isn’t going anywhere today
but I have enjoyed the trips
we’ve taken, stopping at
stations to exchange one soul
for another, like the old guy
clutching a Chihuahua
stepping off for the woman
wearing two blue masks.
I have loved the places
we’ve forgotten, like a cabin
my father rented with the hole
in the bedroom floor that
peeked down at the kitchen.
I may ask why you would
care about a cabin by a lake
in the middle of nowhere.
I could take you there or we
could go to my grandfather’s,
step up to his attic where
he stored potatoes spilling
from burlap like unglazed
earthenware of odd shapes
and sizes, breathe in the musty
smell of earth and starch
before your eyes adjust to
see their eyes creep across
the dusty floor. But let’s go
back to that lake, the one
in the middle of nowhere,
wade in up to our ankles
through years of rotting leaves,
then deeper into ancient silt
squishing between our toes
as soft as chocolate pudding.
We have plenty of time. After all,
this poem is often delayed.