to get from here to there
you must travel.
no 2 ways about it, you’re
hitting bricks.
…
hitting bricks or
pounding pavement,
however you put it
you’re wearing out souls,
and thinking so, I
donned flip-flops
&
–tripped on road immediately
(not a mile from home)
& yeah, trip-tripped
trapped, like any silly goat gruff
–at bridge of ringing bells—
but took a dive, also
–mesmerized by roadkill—
(geese, mostly, still heading South)
and
traffic cones
(orange entirely, and so oddly positioned)
and dividing lines painted in no uncertain terms
the definition of which I wasn’t certain
(though commonplace)
and after a peace I realized
what was
afoot
(besides feet)
by looking up
–and yeah, the terms in Merriam’s
an unabridged research spanning months
but up-up, also
(in the sky!)
noticing life up there lived yet
(it’s a goose!)
and there were fewer traffic cones, too
(it was plain!)
and absolutely no caped crusaders
(what the flock!)
and the tarmac which I traversed
was a runway!
(the terminal tipped me off)
and since I was running
any
way
I dialed it up
a Mach notch, and
lo unbeholden,
I took flight
(nothing fancy)
growing wings
(left in write)
realizing there
were 2 ways about it
after all
…
since
spirits
…
~spirits~
…
spirits–
–they soar.
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