It's 22 paces to the left

before you ask me if I know where we’re going.

The backroads are your favourite.

You said you prefer when it’s dark on the way.

You said imagination does better in this state

and I’ll laugh because I believe you.

By then we’ll turn the corner

and we’ll see the place I fell and you told me

the sidewalk was sinking slowly

by about a centimetre every year

and you never notice until you start to trip again

every now and then.

And then it’s 14 steps to the boulevard and now we’re crossing

to say we’re almost there

but we know there’s quite some time before we make it to your doorstep.

And before we cut across the grass

you'll talk to me about desire paths

and how we love to forge the way between where we are

and where we want to go.

And then it’s time to make the cut

another 80 feet across the lawn

to crush the barely living grass

for the hundreth time.

It’s 18 paces onward

and by then you’re counting

cars that drive by in the distance

and losing track of the steps we’ve made.

It’s another mile

before your sense of direction

convinces you that we need to be found

but you’ll blame it on the dew and darkness

coating the neighbourhood in glass

and for 12 whole steps

I might believe you.

But before you even finish

 it’s only 27 more paces to the left

and then I’ll promise one last time while

we stand on your porch like we have a hundred times that

I know how to take you home.