Member Poem

I’ve traveled though I swear I never go anywhere,
craving a change of pace but addicted to consistency.
 
So lately, my feet introduce themselves
to The North Star and lukewarm asphalt.
 
The newspaper lady does early morning drive-bys
with perfectly rolled ‘papers out of her passenger window
aimed at this innocent pedestrian. And lately,
 
the summer sprinklers “C’MON” when I leave my house,
as if the beavers took off their yellow hard hats
and the rest of their day, letting the dew win this round.
 
The damp grass pedicures
the bottom of my bare feet.
 
I would hitchhike, but I have stared at
my straight thumbs for far too long. If the cure
for flat feet and tires were filed under my nails
 
I would have found the answers pushing back
my cuticles like slowly closing tiny drawers
and became a walking vaccine on my trip—
 
maybe opened my own business on the road
as a self-proclaimed mechanic and orthopedist
called Keep It Moving.
 
I would hitchhike,
but people who are driven
would just slow me down
as I drag them along.