Where are we?
About halfway to Ft. Benning, Georgia,
the “School of the Americas.”
Before we stopped I was reminiscing
about the first time I was busted.
My seatmate and most of the others on the bus
were not born when I was protesting
compulsory civil defense drills.
This looks like the same place we stopped
for gas at 1 a.m.
I feel disoriented.
This is an island in space and time,
connected only to darkness and sleep.
I wander in to the truck stop.
I want a map on the wall
to tell me, “You are here.”
I search among the racks of t-shirts and magazines and crackers.
At least I find a clock.
There’s an old Chinese curse,
“May you live in interesting times.”
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