I wrote this poem many years ago, way before I became a Roadie (see The Endless Highway: My Life as a Roadie). It seems, though, that being a Roadie may have been my destiny.
People in my early life mistook me for a messenger,
a carrier, courier, bearer, delivery person.
Cousins saddled me with items for Grandma,
who ladened me with numerous inessentials
to transport elsewhere down the road.
Sisyphus with a twist: no rock, no hill,
just package after endless package.
They had cars, they had trucks:
why was I their Mercury?
Moving away, I inserted several states
between me and them. In my new,
improved state people do not consider me
a runner. If a package is important,
they know all about United Parcel.
Today I realize the roads travel
in two directions,
askers bound to house and yard,
while I — I know streets,
Crossing the Skyway is Barbara Gregorich’s first collection of poems. She hopes to put “Two-Way Street” into a second collection.