Previously

They do not ask you if you want a legacy.
Your road (the one you don’t want
to look back at; you stopped
turning your head- maybe
it will go away)
was dug by broken-hearted backs for years
into your nonexistence.
So you’re handed your prepackaged bundle,
signed, “With Love”
and the capital letter annoys you;
your
grandmother’s thick pinkie toenails and
daddy’s worry tendencies and possibly
crap in your gene pool
that you try not to think about.
You shove it into the closet but
its strings leave you pulling it behind you,
laugh lines on the aging highway.

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