The world seems so small
when I can travel an 1/8th of it in a day,
horizontally, west, on concrete between north and south,
over mountains,
over dirt red, brown, then red again,
with trees
that imitate broccoli
that imitate asparagus
that imitate something small
a part of something big
After a while,
I think I too am like the trees,
that imitate life,
that imitate a link in a chain of connections,
that imitate something small
a part of something big
And I close the distance
between myself and the world
on my 5th tank of gas
that I let hit ‘E’
on the shoulder of I-30 in Arkansas
and view the texture time has left on my soul;
the unnecessary imitation
to be together,
because we are always together
when I can travel an 1/8th of it in a day,
horizontally, west, on concrete between north and south,
over mountains,
over dirt red, brown, then red again,
with trees
that imitate broccoli
that imitate asparagus
that imitate something small
a part of something big
After a while,
I think I too am like the trees,
that imitate life,
that imitate a link in a chain of connections,
that imitate something small
a part of something big
And I close the distance
between myself and the world
on my 5th tank of gas
that I let hit ‘E’
on the shoulder of I-30 in Arkansas
and view the texture time has left on my soul;
the unnecessary imitation
to be together,
because we are always together
Tyler Pufpaff is the Author of A Quarter Life and Editor in Chief at Variant Literature. His previous publications have appeared or are forthcoming in Torrid Literature Journal, Havik, Coraddi, and Poetry Diversified 2019: An Anthology of Human Experience.