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Passenger Seat
Mary M. Brown (bio)

Because I forget that the signs
    mean kilometers, not miles, we
find ourselves a little lost
           in Canada, heading toward
Toronto—
       not where we mean
to be at all. I say “a little” lost

because we have
    a gizmo that we have resisted
programming and still
resist, preferring to wrestle
with the creases and folds
of the paper map.

It’s not like we haven’t been here before,
not like this is new
territory. We know the lay
of the land and the language, if not
the very road we are on.

We are more dazed than concerned,
unfazed, a bit removed. We would rather
    drive on than speak— or joke
about the stupid mistake
I made that put us heading toward
  a place we’d never

           planned to return to.

 

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