Requiem for the Breeze


Trawling the vacant storefronts of the 21st century during football games, searching for inspiration amid the check-out aisles and random displays.                                                       Here’s to you fashionably dressed ladies of Safeway, bent over your carts while the moon cries above. When I’m inspired I do the laundry- on other days, I bide my time while the winds of may bring in the flies.                                                                                                                     A fair chance has come kicking at your door again while you were busy trying to get away. As unforgiving as a hole in my heart where Puerto Rico once lived though I cannot continue to imagine it much longer.                                                                                                           Too many poor nights standing out on the back step with all the stars pressed up against you.Turning keys at city hall for the half-wits and not enough coffee at night to keep you awake and you need as many distractions as you can take, sailing through the hidden lobbies half amused in spite of yourself.                                                                                               Out of sorts in the crowds because you’ve seen through your own skin too many times or in the silliest piece of fanfare passed off again as praise.                                                                   Your standing alone in an age of wonder crawling out from Cadillacs painted over by the crust of vicious habit. Call it a premonition, but the shows gone to town and you’re alone, checking the hotels for fresh corpses that have been left to flower in your absence.               Just in time for the late hour, after the shift of both night and day, when going to town meant tackling the pun for groups of well-wishers, with drink in hand.                                     The swell of voices keeps from bobbing up in the place of your thoughts, blocking out the horizon. It doesn’t matter, when the dream finally arrives it will be as regular as the         9-5. Dismayed, and ruined they’ve even sent the cleaning woman home in reaction to the news- of what you can no longer see, the house meant to fit and instead tore it to the ground.           Falling through the many wonders as they’re called back home.                                                     Tiled porches and dovetailed ceilings the inner connected roads barely lit so the traveling is slow unless they’ve attempted it a thousand times before.                                                       Then it’s back to work or outta luck where nothing much lends itself most naturally.   The ordinary factory worker worth his weight in gold in the life and times of seen it all before.


About gumgee12

I am a writer, painter, poet. Below is a link to my online portfolio. I can also be found on Facebook- Gumgee.
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