“…and there’s nothin’ short of dyin’
that’s half as lonesome as the sound
of a sleepin’ city sidewalk
and Sunday mornin’, comin’ down…”
– Kris Kristoffferson
There is no respite from the escape
the night before, sketchy
adrenaline rush of
getting there, staying there, leaving
behind whatever it was
trying to find whatever it is
oblivious as to whatever it should be
ambiguity used to fuel contentedness
but years, miles, time
have dulled senses, pinched off
feelings of adequacy
going with the flow when the
stream bed is just withered sand;
grounded flotsam
of sun-bleached opportunity
weathered dreams
honed to dull, polished smoothness
but the stream no longer washes over them,
channel a conduit only for what was
any chance at rejuvenation
lies in torrential rains
that would wash away the dust
only to disappear once again
in the heat of another day
Stepping out into the street
putting aside metaphor, remembrances
reality is shrill comeuppance
here you are, who cares where you were
you don’t know where you’re going
though the morning is warm you fight the chill
inexorable creeping of time
paranoia of memories and the truth
assuaging balm of reminisces
warmth; pulling the collar of invincibility
up around your throat
There is a cold front moving in
experience has taught you
your wherewithal to combat the elements
no match for this brewing storm
the only sensibility and clarity afforded
by all who’s, what’s, where’s, why’s
you have been
the person you have become
knows instinctually, without regret
hunkering down, waiting it out,
no longer a viable option
out-of-place and time,
weathervane
spins incoherently
vagaries of the squall tells
only from where the wind blows,
not to point you in a direction
in lieu of a compass, it will have to do
headed down the street
the wind at your back, in your face
the city beckons you to
impossibly attainable anonymity
promises you will be forgotten
but only for now,
only today, only tomorrow
There is no respite from the escape
still, you got out – ironically,
you would consider going back if
you only could remember
where you had been, why you were there,
how you got here from there
in the first place
this is what the morning brings
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2017
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
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subconsciously,
Ponderable polemics, poetic 