Five Year

Lines, not nearly as crisp
nor time as precious,
we stay lackadaisical
on the trip.

And arrive like soldiers
ready for boot camp
hair trimmed or tied
unpacking luggage.

We’ve forgot nothing
and spend much time
reminiscing instead
of writing.

If one were to come
visit, they might believe
they’ve simply crashed
a party.

We just don’t go at it
like this could slip away,
the first lasting impression
of an experience.

But come we do and must,
compelled to bring groceries
and cameras, more than just
the essentials.

Each season like salmon
who might be content
in the ocean, eddies
in the sea.

Swimming against the wishes
of our loved ones, who
miss us and think we’re wasting
a weekend.

Upsetting bosses who need
us while they are away
at a vital conference,
on business.

Family who says we’re needed
today, tomorrow, to cut grass
or help clean the house,
wash the car.

And though we don’t lust
like we used to, hopped up
on caffeine and a not good
night’s sleep,

Lust, like dumb adolescents
who would rent this room
only for a kegger
or a hook up,

Like geeks at a high school
dance, shrunk in the corners
laughing at themselves
in pity,

All gaudy and gawky,
great scoundrels of escape,
the physique of the world’s
vanishing ions.

And though we might
not arrive as famished
and exhausted, thirsty
and blushed

We still tweak up
our ears to embrace
the tonal musings
of strangers

Peak with anticipation
when the notes strike
from a mind skipped out
from insomnia

Squeak and squeal
at the next assigned
target, and explosion
when achieved.

We are hunkered down
with verses in our hotel
versus the world
and its trappings,

Trapped in our second-long
weekend, our curious love
rekindled at our annual
Convergence.

The world will not hear us,
not from this perch,
it possesses no telescope
long enough,

It nudges out our words
for its needs, for it’s
pragmatic thoughts
and better ideas,

We emerge
like still wet chickens,
beaks pecking from inside
a dark shell

Into the din and click of keys,
the harsh early morning sun,
the late night mind-bending
blood of eyes,

Beating a day or two out
of the long metal pages
of calendars slowly,
too slowly flipping.

And though we may hew
not much more than a word
or two, a funny story,
some anecdote

Underfed by the yolk
of an assignment,
the seed of some
long held

Trick to get the mind away
from the work-a-day,
from the mortal fear
of dying,

Though we may leave
with nothing more than
a small bit of void
bobbing around

In our brains, we’ll come
to miss it, to begin planning
for another escape some time
too far off,

If for no other reason
than to hug the small words
that slip otherwise through
the cracks of life.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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