How we got home

It was down Moreland to McLendon some night and then a straight shot.
Or before that there was always DeKalb Avenue involved.
Or just down College from the place where you lived with your sister to that turn by the place where you sell hands and then working your way over in the truck with the love of Elvis to my place, or your place, or what would become ours.
Or perhaps it is North on I-85 to SC exit #69. The business route, which used to be not the business route when I took it to see a woman that I only loved an iota compared to you. And then there’s a turn on Pine or some sort of street? And then on a Saint street? And then by the Quickie working the way back into the woods. Sylvan Court.
Or it was further up I-85, for me always, for you after Christmas for a couple of years. Exit at East Club and then down, forking at Carpenter, and left on Cheek, then by the Church on another, and to the Dude Ranch. Did you think there would be cowboys everywhere?
Or we could’ve taken Ponce to that little spur that takes you to Clifton and then a left, as soon as you see the traffic light ahead, onto the street with the good sledding hill – if it ever snowed – and right and up the hill.
Or it could be down Briarcliff/Moreland and into the park on North and around the bend where you laugh because I always indicate when there’s only one way. Then there’s another left and shortly you will now be home, and longly I will, but use to be it was the same.
And shortly in our home your feet would find their way to my hands, and I would watch you stagger and stammer into sleep, toned, and would stay up (would’ve gone to bed early every night if I could’ve had the proper foresight), and you would sleep, and I would watch boxing and make feeble attempts at writing, and think things were perfect when they were all fucked up. At least they were until I found my way to bed, and your little heater body mashed up against me, and mine against yours.
That’s how we got home.
There was only one way.