Lagrangian

Miles and miles of interstate highway,
vessels through which we urban cells,
encased in shells of painted metal, pass.

Like intricately woven web-threads,
some long forgotten home from which
a monster, perhaps once a monster, fled.

Nineteen years, at least one spent upon
the surface of these paths, half spent
contemplating, through steel bars, horizons.

Not a loss, this myriad of hours,
though disconsolate, time in thought
luminates time spent elsewhere.