Leaves the heady smell of night-blooming jasmine,
hugs the pebbly corners of the switchback road
in search of Louisiana’s best campsite. Brings no maps.
Watches rocks crack off the ledge and dive-bomb
a dark nothing. Cuts the wheel tighter. Climbs higher.
Hungers. Thinks of tires like teeth, crunching gravel,
swallowing the mountain road. Reaches the apex
then turns around, lost and empty-handed.
Nowhere to sleep. Reverses. Descends. Years later,
when asked why there was no pulling over or
pitching the tent far from the steep narrow path,
says from where we started, it didn’t look so bad.