he grew up different than most of the boys his age.

it was his grandfather's fault, really. his grandfather watched him days, as his parents worked.

as he grew, before he was in school, his grandfather read him poetry.

sometimes, walking along the field that made his back yard he would recite poetry.

frost (whom the boy loved, at first, but the older he got, the less his love grew until, one day, he found himself unable to open the collection his grandfather had handed down) would come out of his lips, swinger of birches, nothing gold must stay.

he knew cummings, williams, pound before and better than he knew of the train that thought he could or little red riding hood.

he began to look at everything in terms of poetry, without really realizing it, without anyone else ever really realizing it, either.

blue hole road became his favorite road just for the way it sounded in his head, the way it sounded coming out of his mom's lips.

and for the image it produced in his head.

years later, when he was deciding whether or not he would leave that night, when he was sitting on the couch, both feet firmly planted on the off white carpet, when he was comparing her to his wife, comparing the love felt and the love given, everything, when he would debate staying or not, he thought of that road.