How long before we lose our way?
Subway maps were conquered at dawn
as now we know which way the yellow-line-9 is drawn.
So too do we know where to go
when dusk drapes around the gates,
as our maps of adventure
reignite and burn, like ice amongst the freeze,
burning off and down into the molecule drown
of every river in Yorkshire.
In most jean pockets since GAP and others,
dried snow white,
paper thin, paper light seeds,
have been given to the wind.
Those were the maps we needed,
that we really, desperately needed.
Tissue paper contour dreams
that told us where to sit and scheme,
reel off and scream out of bellow lungs,
with handles heaved together by elder’s hands.
The yellow-line-9 got destroyed
by an act of thought,
educated guesses caught midair,
whisked together with words
and here we are, grown up men
in a Lego den.