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IT'S CALLED COMMUTING

We could have made it easily to Zanzibar,
         or to Greenland,
   or to the South Sea Islands that lured
                           Columbus here. We could

have gone to Sarajevo, or to Shanghai,
              or to Port Elizabeth where Steve
     Biko was beaten in that room. We

might have toured Chile and visited Salvador
                   Allende had he not been
       buried in the rubble of
                           Santiago, or
                 
     safaried
               to the Serengeti and seen the lions
   and the elephants I love, but
                                      instead we

             stayed on Rt. 128 for six years,
 riding together, 10,000 miles each year,
          or twice around the Earth, searching for
            exits we knew well, called "20" or

Trapelo Road, chatting away, the                
     world passing under our feet, as the
          planet rotated from light
 to dark, from Autumn to Spring, from
               
one millennium to another, from junior high
       to high, from Brooks to
                    L-S, from Lincoln
              to Sudbury, from adolescence to some-
where else down the road, from this crisis
    to that traffic jam, and sometimes

when you had fallen asleep
  I would look at you,
                 much as my father,
   
      returning in Bronx
darkness,
    would look in
               on me. Oh, this road

     will keep unrolling, but I will
           still turn to
                    see you sleeping
there, as

      you travel on.


At the end of Jamie and I commuting together
across

one state,
six towns,
six years,
two decades,
two centuries,
two millennia,
1080 days,
1260 hours,
60,000 miles.

September 2001


All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter