A poem I wrote

Where do we go when we’re wrong?

I always thought it was just across the bend,
Behind the tree stump,
Along the burnt cars pile,
Under the collapsed
Bridge and over the blood filled ditch.

Perhaps, they sigh, it was never that far
From us. Perhaps, they think, if we just
Turn and blink our eyes fast
Enough we’ll see it and squint it
Out. Perhaps, they say, we could
Listen to it, especially in those long dark
Afternoon hours of the empty summer.

Perhaps.

I dwell there still, awaiting
Their arrival.