I tucked Kerouac into my back pocket, a set of pouches stitched together in jeans that already

Held thirty dollars in loose change, a bus ticket that was never checked

By the young black driver who just gave me a smile as he wished

Me a good evening and was amused when I answered back with an English accent.

A chocolate bar, half eaten, evidence of the journey I had taken to find you.

Kerouac groaned as he span in his grave to see his work becoming

Lost in the back of my trousers.