            Incident Along Fantasy Way 2245 hr 4/8/75
                            The Edge

Near the highway's end is a motel--
Small, quiet, half-empty.
There is no flow of travelers to points beyond pausing 
     for the night
As there are no points beyond
To pause on the way to.
This is the edge of the world.

People do come, but not many:
There are rumors that looking too closely or too long
Can drive you mad,
Or worse, that people may think you mad 
When you are not.  
So the tourist families that come to snap pictures
     of their children 
Standing next to the big sign near the edge
("But not too close!")
And buy picture postcards showing 
     the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria
Falling through endless sky
Are few.

Most of the trade is "regulars" returning again and again--
Some in groups,
Some meeting friends here,
Some alone.

The Edge somehow goes with aloneness
And one's own thoughts.
Indeed, no two see it alike,
And like one's thoughts,
It is never the same twice.

For the motel this is a problem.
Everyone who goes to the edge extends it:
An inch here, a foot there, two feet somewhere else.
So in a few years
The motel will have to move
Or lose its claim to fame
And be just another motel.

                                   Thomas G. Digby
                                   written 2245 hr  4/08/75
                                   entered 2345 hr  2/08/92
