Where is the map
that connects me to you?
The stops for water
and shelter
and years?
Is there a ground plan for grief,
for the loss of “might?”

Where are the moments,
the days
spun in “should”s and “shouldn’t”s?
Will you ever know
what you need to know before
or will it always come later?
If it stared you in the face,
would you know it now?

Yet, here I am,
I have spent my short little life
searching for love —
I am a stranger
among other strangers —
but all I seem to have found
are fists rising
from a few yellowing pages
full of ink that never dries.



Copyright © 2018 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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