First Man - Oct 10 2026

 

First Man

Oct 10 2026

The cul de sac

sits off a quiet street

in a leafy suburb. 

It takes stop/starting

at several rights and lefts

to get there,

from the main arterial road 

through less and less travelled ones. 

That busy central thoroughfare 

is wide and serpentine, 

winding through the housing tract 

like an asphalt spine

dividing it in two.

It’s no accident, those curves;

no one’s just passing through,

there are faster routes

than this labyrinth of streets

speed bumps

and 4-way stops.

Which is how we like it here;

our kind of people

  . . .  no surprises. 

The cul de sac

is a dead end

that backs on a wood,

a small remnant 

of the forest that once stood here,

before the earthmovers 

chainsaws

and men who roll out lawns

in long heavy strips

of industrial turf.

At night, streetlights wash-out the sky.

Trash bins, all identical

line the street like sentries

standing by the curb.

The houses are quiet 

grass lush

gardens manicured.

But the woods are dark

mysterious

alluring.

And wild, of course.

Sometimes even spooky

under a full moon

when the wind stirs the leaves

and makes the trees sway.

I walk there at night,

navigating unmarked paths

and breathing in the woodsy scent.

But instead of engineered to keep away

these paths draw me in,

step by step

as if compelled.

Is this a necromancer’s spell,

or some innate desire

I can’t resist

and follow blindly?

Where I keep careful track

of each fork, intersection

double-back and dead-end.

Or at least keep track

until I can’t.

Did I let my mind wander?

Is some metaphysical force

leading me on?

Or is that what I wanted all along?

That is, if you can be lost

but also feel you’re where you belong.

Walking on uneven ground

surrounded by trees.

As if the streetlights went dark

traffic stopped

lawns grew wild.

As if the land

was as it’s always been;

soil, teeming with life,

virgin trees

too thick to get my arms around.

As if no man

had walked this way before.

The poem was inspired by this article. 

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/10/05/property-values-joshua-specht-book-review

Although the dogs and I frequently do a walk very much like this. But unlike the poem, I know the usual route — don’t have to keep track of all the rights and lefts and forks. 

But deeper into the woods, it’s still easy to get lost; especially if you wander out of earshot of the river. 

I almost never take my phone on walks. But once when we did lose our way I was happy I had it:  the path we were near actually showed up on Apple Maps. Naturally, I was pleased it did; but still damned surprised! Unfortunately, this also shows just how delusional my sense of in wilderness is: a fond fiction I romantically cling to, despite the clear evidence.

Btw, I believe the technically correct word is maze, not labyrinth. So allow me to claim poetic license. (You can’t get lost in a labyrinth.  Look it up.)