I imagine that’s how the horse will feel
when the trailer gets where it’s going—
as I pass it on SR 2 east of Waterville,
I spy an equine eye dark and bewildered.
Horses are not like migrating birds,
or your neighbhor’s cat, which hitched
a ride to Missoula on an August pickup
and still made it home before snowfall.
Neither is the fly I picked up in Spokane.
What will that lumbering pest think
when I roll down my window in Winthrop?
What will it do with unfamiliar air?
I know how both fly and horse feel.
Each day I wonder where the hell I am
and how I will find my way home
when I open the door on 2029 America.