He stopped in at several small towns, but
All the inns were full. Monida had no inn. No
People either. Only ghosts like shacks, names,
And numbers. This time, he didn’t stop. But
He should have asked the ghosts. We would
Have told him that he had never stopped. Not
In Dillon, not in Dell, not in Lima, not atop
Any of the many, many continental divides,
Not even in Idaho Falls where he’d fallen
Years before on another trip searching
For a place to stop, not even when he found
Himself sitting on a balcony on a warm night
At last with a bed on which to lay his restless
Head, facing, of all things, a white, glowing
Mormon temple with its golden Moroni on it
Blowing that horn straight at his balcony,
Just as the Moroni of Salt Lake used to blow
His horn straight at the traveller’s own bedroom
Window, all those years ago. This is not
To deny these are personal details, of interest
Only to egos, angels, gods, and ghosts, and not
Something a reader should have to scratch
A head to understand. But look, whispers
Monida, north of temples, ruined exit zero,
Look. We pass and pass. There is no place.
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