Google Maps pretends
I exist where that pink bubble is
when in fact I am here at my desk
writing a poem. Location: in
a real house, not a photo of one.
Google Maps tells people
to go along unsealed tracks
and get bogged down (and dirty,
waiting for Roadside Assistance).
The real road is asphalted.
Don’t get me wrong: I love maps.
Each town is a dot, is a story.
Every road and street and court
is a conversation, a community
where I can discover poetry.
My brother who makes maps
for a living began to notice
location as a postman. Now
he creates it, in fold-up sheets.
Monochrome, useful to tourists.
We map my poetic journeys
together, and give them voices.
The tracks are often uncharted
but navigation is easy. We look
for real people in real country.