Row 14, Seat F

MVIMG_20180305_175015.jpgJetting after the sunset,
A misplaced belief that our
Hurtling metal-light skin,
Buoyed by air,
Or hope,
Maybe belief,
Could outstrip time, itself.
Red flashing eyes score the nothing while
Wagon train ruts, now traced by
Sulphurous orange glows,
Score the destructive path of
Shrouds of exhaust fumes
Exhaled from so many
With someplace to go.
And I want.
I want.
For once my imagination
Outstrips what it knows,
Beating time, place, chronology,
Until the best of our
Converge in this moment.
Here in row 14, seat F.
There is peace on Earth.
With a side of
Goodwill to so many someones.

And then there were Eight

October 4, 1968
Mom counting one two . . .
Ten perfect toenails.

Chasing my brother
49 years, 5 months, 7 days later
On the Appalachian Trail.

Going up so we can go down,
Over hill and dale,
As they say.

Lifetime memories of
Snow, sleet, rain, wind,

A long section hike,
Well short of my goal.
I want more.

10 perfect Colorado toenails
In two slightly tight shoes,
And then there were eight.

(update, and now there are seven…)


Insides howling,
I’m a Grandfather clock
Wound too tight.

Checklist ticking.
Minutes ticking.
Bomb ticking.

One week, 7 days,
168 hours, 10,080 minutes.
A kid’s night before Christmas.

Phone off. Nature on.
Birds, wind, sun, rain,
Footsteps and breath.

Ready it not,
Here I come.