CALL ME BELOVED

I am wanderlust, incarnate,
for all the attention I give to shoes
and sidewalks, my obsession with
tree limbs and the steady, inaudible
tick tick tick that I count off
as the white lines on the highway
slide past in the rear view mirror.

I’m tired of the view outside my window,
the whitecaps and the roiling ocean –
even the blaring horns that snap me back
from a quieter place, impatiently tapped out
on the steering wheel behind me when
the car ahead isn’t clairvoyant of traffic lights.
they begin to melt together, a broken record
of needless haste and graying hair.