The Old Maps To Oregon

Their maps, when they had maps, were charted well
With names stretching two hundred miles or more,
For timid wives to read the night before
The latch-string on the front door slowly fell,
Leaving them, just a moment, staring hard
Against the door, as if a door could close
Tighter the last time than the doors of those
Who had no prairie wagons in the yard.
Altho the scrawny legends overlapped
The wilderness with bitter high deceit,
Such wives at dusk could still smile when they came
Within a smile or two of what was mapped,
Dreaming of harbor, while thick oxen feet
Drummed toward some empty place that had a name.