My head above the cold sidewalk
facing east
where the sun breaks a streak along the line of Kansas.

Behind it, states I’ve given my years to, by choice,
by circumstance, where folks I miss
woke earlier, rose children, burnt toast

who are now
busy scheduling meetings.
I face west to do what I’ve always done

facing the wide sky. Run. Bad
at long hauls, at dark nights,
at big gambles, and being Mr. Right

for anyone for very long. Bad
as anything, but
a sweet memory, a story, somewhat quotable.



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

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