when I ask for a plain cotton washcloth

you give me blue large leather curtains instead,

sunflowers for breakfast on the broken balcony

of a motel

at the edge of an abandoned city.

we are tourists here

never to stay

yet we find each other stealing visiting cards

and gum at the reception.

you will bring a lover who is not me and I you,

here again.

we are not gypsies looking for a home.

we are the paint chipped away on milestones.

we are to go back.

for you have become the road,

but I, the city.