Travelogue
I feel a dirty wind blow in my face
full of grit and elbows, grease
of ancient days
boiled down, dry-dusted hair of
comrades
back to Concord against my face bandana
catches in a white-on-red pattern
gone brown
when will I take care to rinse it
out?
Weary as a dying wind, pale as thin
dust settled
I lie flat-backed on breathing grave-like
ground
and this is no time to dream nor
even slumber long
Rise again and slump onward to
fight the patterns
in the sense of things I see stone
wrong circle me
as the wind picks up its mad,
hard song overhead
I sit up to feel a dim yellow sun
hurt my eyes
it runs orange and copper fingers
on the misty banks
and there is no song in it, only spitefulness
A willful world has stacked worn
chips against me
The uphill road I’m on is a bet for
a sucker to follow
with no pieces of bronze, silver
or gold more to wager
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