The man with the silver ponytail and the cherry-red camper van nodded.
"Who is my you?" I thought I heard him ask no one, "my most true you?"
Or I heard what I wanted to hear. No one else was at the rest stop.
The vault toilet in the pines had recently been repainted and cleaned.
Gone was the graffiti that had made me wonder why we learn to write.
The river murmured greenly alongside. The highway murmured, too,
Mostly in the opposite direction. I was happy to wait a while
And to feel lucky to have returned, more or less, to something like this.
I counted the times I had passed through this similar vortex
And then I turned the car down a side road I'd never explored.
It was a sunny, end-of-summer afternoon in British Columbia,
And after having conjured such a lost mountain moment for myself
At my world's end, or near there, I was in no hurry there anymore.
The road was narrow, eloquent, and new through the woods,
Bits of color already letting the dead peep through.
I'd left the cherry-red van down behind, at least for a little,
And I looked at the unfurling daylight, thought of home,
And murmured, nodding, to every sight and every thought.
I could love you. I could love you. I could love you. Be my you.
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