by Sonja Johanson
East will take me back. I drive
west. I wend between snowbanks,
until the road delivers me
to a sleeping boat launch.
They stand on the frozen ramp;
watch me with coats that are
better than mine. Ice houses
and snowmobiles edge the distance.
I have to turn around, I say
to them, I went the wrong
way. They stamp and chuff.
No, they tell me, this is the way.
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