A landscape for madman in my mind
and the genius in yours.
Kept short and trim and orderly,
most days.

Caves with paintings
from another day, and for another day.
Ready to reveal themselves,
if ever we’re ready to see them.

A road for the hitchhiker in your thumb;
he’s on a journey
I won’t try to understand.
A man without a car,
off to a place he can’t name.

Scars,
left over from the day she learned
take- out was more her style.
Frying pans don’t cool off quite so quickly as she had thought.

It’s useless, all of it,
Unless madmen can meet with geniuses,
create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Unless cave paintings lace together and tell a story,
people know it is one worth hearing.
Until the hitchhiker finds a real place to call home.

It’s useless, all of it,
until two hands become one map of stories and life.