Thursday, November 19, 2015

OR MAYBE

Begrudgingly,
the midlife sun is 
up and schlepping 
torpid through his paces—shilly-shallying

over peaked greenpurpleish 
mountains and
tree-
tops and corn 
sticks and sandy
red clay 
and then some 
significantly purpler 
mountains and whatnot.

And then, after
pausing to smoke a few 
and consider 
his chosen line of work—there
before the same old 
basin of dull insipid peace-loving water,

heaving-
off reluctantly
from shore again
to scrap for a halfway-decent 

place—to finally 
set, already.

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