The Expedition
.
This story might take some time to warm up,
as I am just awake, and it is too cold to write
anything other than stories about explorers
and men with packs of dogs pulling them
across the ice. Alas, the subject has been
written about so many times that if I were
to embark on such a tale, I would not be the
first and, of course, in the spirit of discovery
I must be the first; if only, that when I arrive
at the end I can plant my flag in the ground
and pose for pictures. Such is the fate of
men who embark on such things.
And what of the other members of the expedition:
the ones who came as far as they could
before turning back, and the ones who
stayed with me, right until the end.
What becomes of them?
And what of the few who keep going:
the ones, whose journey knows no end.
What of them?
And what shall I name this place?
Shall I name it on my knees exhausted,
or perhaps after seeing the first sunrise,
or shall I name it after the company
I keep this morning: the one, who left
the window open all night; the one,
whose name I should engrave here
in case I freeze to death.
