A New Jersey idyll would begin
And end with Route 1.
The antipodean terminals, Florida and Maine,
Coalesce along that serpentine highway,
Forming a vortex of vagaries and strip mall surfaces,
Flat blots on a depthless image.
Until, fascinated, like a zombie enchanted,
The rear of a Jeep Liberty greets you.
The heave forward crawling across your memory,
Even still, like molten chocolate down a chin:
A durable presence, a slip of ink,
On a concrete canvas.