I saw the quail hurry down the alley
from my patio window.
They brought the smell of cedar.
Of lively powdery blue berries
that turned brown and cracked
when I gently placed them
in my riven ceramic bowl.
I collected them off the cedar
on my long walks to and from.
Hearing the quail's faltering cry.
With the sunset dragging down
the mountains into dust at my feet.
Where the quail go is no concern of mine.
But I feel sorry they must hurry.
What can a quail have that is worth
hurrying to? says I --
a man sitting in a faded recliner who
is done hurrying to anything.
When I was younger I did more
hurrying away from than hurrying to.
Straying from rather than headed to.
And my friends and the wife of my
youth know this well
and they want to talk and talk and talk
about it with me.
The intermeddlers.
They would take a snail out of
its shell to improve its life.
Their helping hand pinches.
Their breath is stale and self righteous.
Strafing my comfort zone.
Please go away, Yenta.
Leave me trace my dreams
with Pixy Stix.
No comments:
Post a Comment