Leaving dusty footprints on Texan soil,
     a drifting unemployed taxi driver.
     Stumbling through nights of doubt,
     towards seedy lighthouses that shone brightest.

He scratched her name on napkins, in margins,
     on the fogged glass of Greyhounds—
     rehearsing a love that would never be more
     than a monologue for his mirrors.

Believing the act would be a sentence,
     six shots, one ricocheted love letter,
     so that on his arrival, 
     history might remember him
     as something other than a ghost.

Shared with dVerse Poetics: Pilgrimage and reflecting on the story of John Hinckley Jr.