Just One Place

Two hours into Maine
and there isn’t a single human sound.
The air is wet and salt
pummels my senses.
I don’t want to go back.
I say this often, about many things.
He fits into the scenery
and I consider
what we’re escaping. I can’t find
the correct nouns. Perhaps verbs.
It isn’t as if these are new ideas.
Even at home, on cobblestone sidewalks
my feet itch and my brain starts shouting
impossible things about leaving.
It knows all about direction,
about opposite points on the map,
but want
is a selfish monster that knows
no logic. Even on its quiet days,
it is always there, whimpering
and tugging on loose clothing.
It’s either now or after winter.
Am I unhappy here,
or is unhappiness now overflowing
into all spaces?
There are flowers everywhere,
the carpet, the drapes, the bedspread.
It’s beautiful,
but it isn’t ours.