I look for garbage bags in the fridge
check the cupboard for milk
stride into the living room, no idea why.
Looks like late spring outside.
Could be early fall.
Is this car mine? Or my wife’s?
I’ve driven 37 miles
with no memory of the last four towns.
My mind's always wandering,
staying out later,
beyond the wooden gate,
down the gravel drive,
across the state highway,
across state lines.
The other day it didn't come back,
left without a word,
left me staring at the gas pump
which I mistook for a juke box.
I had no idea where the quarters went.
Or whether a song could be eaten.
Yesterday, I received a postcard,
with a garden of marble statues
on the front.
On the back was writing
I couldn’t make out,
all strange squiggles and loops and dashes.
But something in my heart
told me I was having a great time in Rome.
I run to the mailbox every afternoon
but I haven’t found any more sandwiches.