I humbly beg forgiveness
(not for the first time, not
for the last) of the towns between
New Haven and New London
that are strung along 95
like green pearls on a black string,
for again I have forgotten your names.

Last night it was very late
and very wet, the four of us had been talking
but by then the other three were sleeping and
it had become all about me driving,
Parliament blaring, cigarette after cigarette
flaring, New York in the rear view
and home still some hours ahead;

there was no room in the car
to hold you as well.  Put simply,
I was trying not to die
in transit through you, not that any of you
wouldn’t be a good place to die, I’m sure —

but that honor ought to be reserved
for those who know and love you,
you don’t need a car full of transients
littering your morning headlines.

So forgive me.  You deserve more
than a mention here, ought to be
destinations in your own right,
and someday I hope I’ll make that right.
But last night, you were just distance to be covered,
just white letters on green signs breaking my trance,
and none of you were either
the good thing I was leaving behind,
or the home I was longing to see.