2017 : January

We carried sacks and cases of confusion
Into a worried hurry towards the south;
A skin of conscience bluish with contusion,
And harbingers by word of pen and mouth

Surrounding us, as we turned off the headlights.
A Florida both neon-lit and cold,
Awaited us, to shield us from such sorrow
As makes the youngest happy heart turn old.

Our days upon the beach, the world turned warmer —
Or maybe we just tuned out of the freeze —
But every fish that swims knows her surroundings,
Just like the salt that rides the ocean breeze.

And after that, a drive along the railway.
A Bed & Breakfast in a depot town:
Where 1920, still alive, but sleeping,
Invited us to dine, and to slow down.

A picture both genteel, and unassuming:
A resting, an arresting of desire:
Of wooden floors of polished oak, and ceilings,
And reading by the dim light of a fire.

I saw my love, the girl inside the woman,
As shoes came off, and tumbled to the floor,
But nights, of course, they end, as do vacations,
And leave us hoping, hankering for more.

We carried all our sets of secret sorrows
Back home to tiny faces waiting there;
Some difference from breaking with surroundings
And breathing, maybe, slightly different
Air


Photo credit: ID 83418404 Mindauga Dulinska | Dreamstime

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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