Hagstrom
I examine my scarred torso
as perusing a Hagstrom –
folded too many times
and incorrectly –
of a locale once familiar,
but no longer visited,
since the neighborhood has changed
and not for the better.
Here the lines converge.
Here they diverge.
Here a piece of the map is missing
where it was torn off,
jagged edged from the procedure.
I trace their contours
as surveying a river bed.
There a stream can still be found.
There it has dried up,
algae bloom strangling new growth.
They say that, come spring,
it will flow clear again.
Good.
I am ready.
Plume: Issue #99 November 2019