out there somewhere

don't try to find me,
he says.
the house now sold,
nearly as dark
as when he lived there
under the soft
weak glow of twenty
five watts.
he's on the road
somewhere, huddled
in a box with no
forwarding address, no
phone to hold.
there's no way to visit,
or say hey,
or talk about remember
when.
he likes it this way,
and so do most people
who know him.