I took a photo of herons walking in Pioneer Park.
Followed them through grass to the St. Pete Pier,

sunrise blue reflecting forever upward. I thought
the road trip would last an eternity. I asked Tracy

if I could stay. Now I am in Pittsburgh, reflecting,
without yachts and breeze, just beside the living

room window. A gray-haired man drives by in
a silver Toyota Tacoma, heading to wherever.

In those days I followed everyone, every whim.
Tracy had other plans. These days I rarely drive,

and when I do it’s up a hill, over ice, or out of
hunger. The cool emptiness I used to carry

to bars, leather wallet bursting with receipts like
unkempt hair– I’d drink until finding purpose,

the familiar, unpaved road to drive on.

(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Spring 2022)