When I called for directions,
Siri's voice
rang
Like chamomile tea and pancakes on a Sunday.
I danced like no one was watching,
gangly.
The spirits dance inside
my electronic superhighway.
I shared dreams with the sun.
All that was left
was the questioning pull of where next.
"Turn left in 200 miles"—
I could follow
or I could wait for the warm of a lamppost.