the midlife sun is
up and schlepping
torpid through his paces—shilly-shallying
over peaked greenpurpleish
mountains and
tree-
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.
