I am passenger, a reluctant navigator
perpetual forward motion
I count markers flickering by
like candles, long-extinguished
cake crumbs and sticky fingers
and under hopeful eyelids
I made a secret wish, of which
I can no longer recall
I was once so small
not so much anymore
as old bones protest; grind and crack
I turn to look back
wistful, regretful – and oftentimes forgetful
it begins to retreat from view
ahead, the next marker on approach
I count a four and I count an oh.

Jesse Falk