31. "Sweeping up glass from my car that was stolen, on a dark overcast day the day before i go on vacation"

This spot might have been Dallas.
By the sparseness of its green.

That dusty churning has left
No enduring enigma.

Once a pilgrim tarried here
And carved her many a poem.

Poem upon poem, till the mass
Towered like sable coral...

The travail is long, lonely;
And ragged his fedora.

If for a moment he rests,
It is not to ask the way.

Through this glad abandonment
A wind gives north to the flesh.