by Bill Hollands
Close your eyes as the ridges
tick by under your fingertip.
Wherever you land you go,
do-overs allowed, as many
as you like. Madagascar, Nepal,
Suriname, Chad – I always
wanted Chad. I knew
nothing about it.
My son and I take a road trip
each summer, just us, special
time. In the hotel room I
spread out my old road atlas,
try to show him the big
picture. See, first Bend, then
Crater Lake, then Ashland. He
rolls his eyes, so I let it go
and read about Chad. Wikipedia
says it’s a mess – poverty,
corruption, violence. We’re advised
not to go there, and if you’re gay
forget it. But there must be
beauty, of course, joy even, small
moments maybe, and I still
know next to nothing about it.
Bill Hollands holds degrees from Williams College, Cambridge University, and the University of Michigan. He is a teacher and poet in Seattle, where he lives with his husband and their son. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Rattle, The Summerset Review, 3Elements, PageBoy, and elsewhere.
Hawaii Pacific Review 