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POEM: The Certain Man

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I met a man

along the road

who thought he knew

which way to go.


Certain was he;

he knew the path.

He had a map.

He’d done the math.


“Your map won’t help

you now, I fear.

Past the map’s edge

the world turns queer.”


“I’ll find my way,

be sure of that,”

the man dismissed

with words he spat.


When I returned,

an hour ago,

I passed a car-

cass in the snow.


No doubt, twas he,

the certain man–

hit a blizzard

in burning sands.


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