He’d gotten as far as Emigrant Gap,
pulling off onto a scenic outlook
beside the pine and granite bowl
of Lake Putt, before turning back.
Only, he thought, it’d be getting dark soon,
a vague notion of appropriate time,
even if what first compelled him was the desire
to drive west till nothing was familiar,
to the last pier into the Pacific.
Yet stopping where it was reasonable
he reasoned the drive back would be long enough,
that he’d gone as far as where equally
driving back would not be too far out of the way.
Wherever he hoped to go, he reasoned,
couldn’t be all that different than his home,
nor better than the comfort of his bed,
because those things seemed appealing to him
being so distant now, seemed emptier
without him than when he felt empty within them.
How ridiculous to drive all this way—
all that gas—he should’ve rented a movie.
So it was getting dark coming back,
the freckled Sierras ringed with highways,
red and gold s-bends in opposite spins.
It was not until he’d reached the state line,
seeing the lone miner of the state sign
crouched upon the backside of a mountain—
some god of all the silver state miners,
there was a prescience about his flat stare
all knowing of the desert, what it was
and what it was always going to be,
its welcoming so anticipated—
that he grimaced, as if in defense, piqued
by that same confidence that turned him back
and turned him back every time before.
Even the sign, even the miner knew.
He let up on the pedal in protest
to slow but not completely obstruct
his return—it really was getting late—
He would be in his home soon,
and lying comfortable in bed.
R. Charboneau
