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As a small boy I sat on an airplane next to my mother.
She unselfishly gave me the window seat,
so I could have the best view.
Me: “Is that the Statue of Liberty?”
Me: “Is that the Eiffel Tower?”
Me: “Is that the Grand Canyon?”
Me: “Is that the Great Wall of China?”
Then the pilot began to taxi the airplane
down the runway for takeoff.
My Mom always told me I was going places in my life.
That’s probably why I found my bags packed outside
the front door with the locks changed when I turned 18.
Since that time I have become a world traveler.
I have gone to the grocery store.
I have gone to the mall.
One time I drove out of town to a small farm in a truck
and picked up a duck.
I often write to my mother about my adventures and I always receive back the same motherly advice:
“Return to sender address unknown.”
Some might say I have chosen the “road less traveled” in life.
I can’t deny this as I explore what road might take me home
from this farm without a GPS.
My duck, Kerouac, quacks and looks tired,
but we have miles to go before he sleeps.
Not to mention I need to stop by the grocery store
and get him some duck food.
As I drive into the infinite darkness with my gas gauge
in the red zone below empty,
I contemplate the finality of our situation
and wonder what little Kerouac has done
to so piss off God.