Analogue

Constance, newly arrived from her New York baptism,
tells me how she detests new maps. ‘You know—
how you don’t know where anything is. I hate that,
not knowing where you are.’ After days of confusion,
she loves it when her map is worn with use, like her lover’s
face, its topography revealing every step she’s taken.

I watch the escalator climb toward departures
carrying an old man who may be going home.
I hate familiar plans with worn creases.
I long for a new map, to be seduced again
by its scent and texture, the teasing of new folds,
ecstatic to explore virgin territory with a finger.