To the Empty Air
When I was alone at the farm, I would drill
the wood from last winter and pretend that I knew
how to make a space ship. I would have knobs ready,
made from last year's twllings, and a hammer set
with a stone found at the base of a mountain.
My old shoes fashioned well as a door, with degraded
tunics as the ceiling cover. I would sail off
only when I had the necessary parts.
When the chestnuts had fallen off the trees,
I set my ship upon a large stone. Fog cirlced the top
of the mountain like smoke. It would be wonderful
to fly to the mountain peak. The glistening air
where the rain can be watched by its slow arrival.
On my chair inside the ship, I saw the running lights
alongside the walls, bending as they passed the end of the vessel.
Fire consumed the atmosphere in front, searing all the way to the peak -
it was then, that the stars put out the blaze, and I was suspended
above the claim of the summit - my breaths were counted
and I witnessed my hands swaying out to meet
the empty air, to forget the time
when I was myself.
This month, I pay the bills late,
writing stories of who I used to be.
It could have been different if I took longer walks,
observing the small changes in the street -
if I had my abandon to cover an entire length
of a street name. I bought new shoes today
for work and thought of traveling weightless -
to leave my habitual bag from my shoulder
and see how my body moves. Maybe tomorrow
I'll finally remember to straighten out my back,
to swing my arms loose like I had been walking for hours -
not wanting to know where my steps will take me.