Jack Scott writes

The Road Out of Here

The road out of here, 
pitted with mirages, 
writhes and shimmers snakelike 
toward horizon
it will never meet.

Tantalizing to the eyes 
the edge of sky is inaccessible by foot, 
but the mailman makes it through, 
proof only that it’s possible for some.

I am an empty mailbox at an empty house. 
As “Occupant” I welcome all incoming mail 
only to discover disappointment 
impersonally sent to someone 
who happens to be me.

The shortest distance 
from Nowhere here 
to Nowhere there 
is not at all a straight line. 
No matter which way I turn 
or how fast I spin around 
I always face away.

One tends to disremember 
that spring will melt 
to steam in summer; 
fall will turn to frost 
then winter’s ice, 
each with evaporated memory 
of its antipode. 

We survive each season,
to confront the next, 
amnesia of the rest, a blessing. 
Memory is the kindest distance
between past pain 
and whatever present.

Love is gone, 
driven out by too much heat 
somewhat of its own making, 
baked out like alcohol 
from cherished recipes, 
evaporated, gone 
leaving scant nourishment, 
crust with no solace to spread on it.

It’s a bitch to be in love 
at over ninety nine degrees 
without memory of  coolness, 
and no concept 
of brutal cold.

Like opposing seasons 
love dies cruelly 
of one limit of endurance 
or another. 

Mailbox -- Vernita Bridges Hoyt