The Map

The map I have followed
since our first meeting
in the delivery room
is older now

Creases and lines
point the way down trails
where I may never go

Each course correction
has softened
the paper aged
folded and folding again
leaving its impression
like the brown of my hair
a love of western novels

I have wrapped myself
in the sweet dry smell
of its security

It is familiar now
the map and its layers
overlaid
like a wax paper drawing
each sheet
slowly revealing
the complete image