Before cell phones, maps aglow
on dashes, Never-Lost, I found
myself, one night, in the deep
of a New Jersey township development–
a tangle of calculatingly curvy lanes,
purposely jumbled junctions,
unfamiliar, first visit, with directions
and daylight going in, forgetfulness
and darkness coming out–
but knew my house lay east and north,
so rolled down driver-side window,
gazed up above roofs
and trees, studied the splay
of familiar points spanning the black,
drove home that night like
an ancient mariner, by the stars.
I store no months of water
nor canned food, no stockpiles
of guns, candles, fire-starters.
I harbor no ox nor plow.
When asteroid or Armageddon
strikes, I will only know
which way lies east and north.