Forklift, Ohio

SEARCHING FOR PETCO

For three days, I drive the city in search of Petco. Day one,
I tell myself that Petco will be easy to find. I don’t find Petco.
Day two, I use the GPS feature on my cellphone, but despite
reading the directions before embarking, I immediately take wrong turn
after wrong turn so naturally it’s as if it’s a biological need,
like sex or water, to lose myself.

After two hours, I’ve found rivers and laundromats
and stores of all kinds, but none of them are Petco.
I return home, dejected. Day three, I arm myself with machete
and research, and I prepare myself for the bush work.
The veins in this city’s palms lure me from the bones
into the deep, bloody tissue. I’m a pioneer re-charting
the Mississippi frontier; I’m DaVinci tickling
tendons in corpses, cataloging how the creek
joins the river, how the strip mall scaffolds
the apartment complex. I’m a nursery rhyme,
ringing, the Jersey Ridge bone is connected to the
Utica Ridge bone, and the bones are a body
in which a hundred thousand people respire, inspire,
expire, depending on their mood that day. I’m in this city’s lungs,
not at Petco. In the heart, I spiral around Petco,
but Petco eludes.

For just a jog, a street named Brady is called
Welcome Way. I have a cousin Welcome.
Welcome Normal Lay, she’s named.
That’s not a diversion, but a reminder to stay
focused, writes Matt Hart in his Sermons.
It’s so easy to get lost, looking for Petco—
especially when lost, looking for Petco. If in doubt,
take Division, or Locust, or keep going
toward the river, and at the river, start again.