Roads -Elizabeth Brewster It was one night when we lived at the farm he came. We were sitting playing dominoes at the kitchen table, And the dominoes made roads along the oilcloth: This road leads to Spain, I said; That road is a Roman road. The light from the kerosene lamp Lay dim and yellow on the cracks in the floor. They were roads, too, but they went nowhere. He came in from the snow and darkness outside, Bringing the cold in with him for a minute, Till Mother had replaced the old overcoat That lay in front of the door to keep the draught out. He was a stocky man, not young or old, His black hair greying a little; His mackinaw was mended, not ragged. He wanted supper, so we took off the dominoes, And Sister told me to brind a plate from the pantry, And I stood by and watched it being filled. He had come, he said, from Annapolis, had walked to British Columbia, And now he was walking home again, because There was no work anywhere on the way. I wonder now about that man, and whether He ever reached home, or stayed home when he got there; Whether he found what he wanted in Annapolis Or turned and walked to west or south again. I see him walking down dark roads in the rain, Muddy roads, dusty roads, wet lengths of pavement blurrily reflecting the pointed edges of stars, Lonely roads with burned woods on each side, Wide roads becoming the streets of cities, All mazily criss-crossing forever, Turning and winding and doubling again forever, Leading home and leading away from home, But mostly leading nowhere.