The Sancho Panza Of My Soul
I stop to crane my albatross neck back across a broad and bruised shoulder,
spy the shadows of a doubt that walked a wincing sleepwalk
behind every battered, broken-hearted and bushwacked mile,
shrug and smile, out of breath, but breathing free at last or perhaps just for now,
knowing by their silhouetted stepping impressions/compressions
in sand and loam, clay and soil and the hot tar of not yet pumice,
that dreams can chase you down even in the wide awake of running from the past.