Cracks in the asphalt
Filled with what looks like black glue
Cover the streets
All the way to town.
Crowded tree-lined streets with
Strangely designed ancient homes.
Some are green or purple,
Others have ornate gates,
But they all have emerald lawns
The oily black stripes
Hold the gray asphalt together
Assaulted winter after winter
By the salt and cold.
Expanses of road
Re-glued year after year
I’m running out of reasons to go back
Except to see those black lines
That form a map
Leading me back to you.