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