We were tooling along in
Fred’s old jalopy,
thrown off our game
because the directions to the
lunatic asylum were confusing.
I decided not to mention how
appropriate
getting lost might be, maybe
later
having to battle the elements
to stay alive.
I’d been reading the old
myths
and liked to imagine sailing
through the clashing rocks
with only an oar for a
weapon,
which wasn’t the most useful
idea since we were heading
south of Tampa, trying to
find our old friend
Adam, who might be waiting
for a visit.
On the other hand, I thought,
and then recalled
Adam having said far too
often: On the other hand––
a knife is up close and personal.
People didn’t like to hear
that kind of thing,
but we were sure he meant no
harm,
even if in fact he did. We
figured by now
he’d have forgotten the
dangerous inclinations
of his youth, those days when
he insisted
we’d all been misled by the
voices
in our heads, then turned
into replicas
of the people we thought we
were. “Of course,”
Adam explained, “certain men
choose
to be tempted by sirens.
Others just let it happen.”
I told Fred that last part
made sense, or sounded
like it should. “Damn,” Fred
replied,
having taken another wrong
turn.
“Not every kind of craziness
makes sense.
Believe me, you’ve got to
draw the line somewhere.”
At first Adam was upset about
being sent away,
but since then we’d heard
he’d grown accustomed to the
quiet gardens
they let him putter about in.
We imagined
him kneeling down in the soil
like his name-sake and
weeding
something small and green,
wondering why he’d ever
believed
what he had, or else why no
one
had ever understood what he
believed.
Or perhaps both thoughts
vanished
while he concentrated on his
task, half-listening
to the murmuring of the more
distracted guests
as they explained to each
other how easily
they had been deceived by
their lives.