Ways

My way to work is the one way
street that becomes two ways,
but it's still my way. It's the way
of the railroad crossing that often
stops me in my way and sends me,
not a new way, but another way,
a way I know, but not my way.

The post office is not a landmark
on my way to work. The post office
is just part of the way. It's part
of many ways to many places.
My way is the way of the post office
passing and the tracks letting me through.

When I have to go somewhere without
a way, I'm lost, even with directions.
It's a madman's way, filled with objects,
marking out turns I should take, warning
me I've gone too far. It's a strange way
that's not my way. It's his way. He
gave me the directions. If they take me
to a place I need, a place I want, then
maybe I'll take his directions--the third
light, the brick gas station--and make
a new way for myself in this new place.