He’d gotten as far as Emigrant Gap,
pulling off onto a scenic outlook
beside the pine and granite bowl of Lake Putt—
not as a tourist taking in the view,
nor was it an empty tank—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.