Ode to road

maps, those that fold
into hidey holes that hold
the clutter someday useful,
if someday ever comes.
A road map, printed spider web
of lines that lead
to places no one goes,
with names so small,
they’re written for a mouse.
(But mice use noses
they don’t need directions
meant to turn the bravest
soul into a blubbering wreck.)
A road map, best to use
as napkin underneath
that hamburger you bought
at roadside rest, the one
that down the way
with no relief around,
will test your gut
and make you wish
you didn’t leave
your home.