Detour

for Dawn Thompson

There is only one rule
of any real value
and it is this:

That one must first
demonstrate mastery
of a rule before one
may earn the right
to break it.

I was never one for being
slavishly devoted to rules.

So when the detour signs
drove me toward the golf course
my curiosity got the better of me.
I already knew that route.
The road ahead was more intriguing.
Where did Satterly go?
And of what use is a detour
if it only takes you exactly
where you intended to end up
anyway?

So I kept going straight
and I came to a tee…
but not that kind,
of course.
Or that kind.

The east fork seemed best.
I was rewarded with a stop sign.
And another tee.
That seemed about par
for the day.

Opposite me the sign said
Thompson Road.
That also figured.
The sign below read largely
FRESH EGGS.
Yep.

A ways to my right I saw another sign:
FRESH FISH.
I have a hunch that I know
where Friday night’s dinner came from.

It seems that no matter where I go
I am always on the right road.

The realm of life is not
a matter of Google Maps and
reliably estimated driving times.

It is not a list of tasks to be
accomplished one at a time
by the end of the day.

It is an unpredictable adventure
of moments stolen and found
of grafittied hearts in a river’s midst
of cormorants preening in the sun
of plant profiles mingled with martyr’s tales
during a roadside walk
of Waldo, located quite finally
in a Mount Vernon dumpster.

It is the open road traveled
with an open mind
and open eyes.

Something whimsically
mysterious.