I go left
and it’s an unfurled fern
and a droplet in the sun
footprints in the mud
and the dried, caked-on
mess
that later accompanies me home.
Crumbled mess of
memories,
from the day,
or
by this point
the memories of times
long gone.
And you’re there.
I go right
and it’s my coffee cup
on the table,
brown, murky ring on the bottom
carless, not neglectful,
a chip in the ceramic
from moving too quickly.
It’s “homey,” I say.
And you’re there.
Left or right.
And I might have even
gone straight.
Even so, at the end of my path
that somehow became
the beginning.
And you’re there.