when I ask for a plain cotton washcloth you give me blue large leather curtains instead, sunflowers for breakfast on the broken balcony of a motel at the edge of an abandoned city. we are tourists here never to stay yet we find each other stealing visiting cards and gum at the reception. you will bring a lover who is not me and I you, here again. we are not gypsies looking for a home. we are the paint chipped away on milestones. we are to go back. for you have become the road, but I, the city.