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.