The road back was
better known: Albuquerque, Flagstaff, a restless night
in a Needles motel.
Barstow the next morning, then a wrong turn onto
66, the road on which I escaped my
So, a U-turn to back roads through small towns take us home.
Ridge Trail today, I recall a sunless New York apartment,
roaches skating on
greasy walls. On the radio: "The
President's been shot." Later, "The
President is dead."
The way is steep. The hills are green in spite of drought.
This path has no way back.