Brought back south, no job within sight,
I borrow my partner's car and a thousand
from our joint account, driving east
to tug at a couple of antique dreams
now that I have the time:
petting Paula Sandburg's goats
and sipping an ale in Williamsburg.
I eat everything slowly, even the ginger
paper-thin wafers in Moravian cylinders,
and especially the sushi, savoring as much
its ubiquity as its flavor — to find a craving
addressable not only in California
but in little towns in the Swannanoa
and three blocks east of Duke of Gloucester Street.
Abingdon, Richmond, Norfolk, Raleigh, Charlotte —
I stop in Asheville over a weekend,
to trace another knot into the lariat
I've sketched across my Triple-A map:
Biltmore is pretty enough, but what I take home
is the stop at a warehouse at the edge of town,
learning to whirl to "Ways of the World"
while keeping my eyes fixed for dear life
on the face of each person clasping my hand.