The Real Poetry.

My legs they
with longing.
To hit the open country road
and ride until the sun comes up
and everything on Earth is
slowly stirring to their feet.

To find a small clearing
near a pond, but not too
near a pond, where I
can take a bath and
tuck myself inside my
sleeping bag amidst a
plethora of painful
rocks to rest on.

It’s poetry, I promise.
As long as you don’t
think about the
hunger and the
biting flies
and the long ride
back home.

But then, there’s
the real poetry, anyway.


One thought on “The Real Poetry.

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