2017 : October

falling time, dissembling and melting,
tore along the drift across the plain;
our cabinets were full, our wagons loaded,
a caravan of camion and dray
beneath the clouds of apricot and gray.

we lost some people, maybe, back in kearney;
we lost a wagon, surely, out in blair —
but far away from anything like distance,
we slept beneath a tired clump of trees
whose only friends were random bits of breeze.

a chill first, then a storm across the prairie,
we hunkered down to weather, best we could,
for seven days and nights the anagogic
swept across our wagons and our heads
and tore our feeble canopies to shreds.

and then one day, i rose: the camp was empty —
for all had turned, and headed back for home —
amid the ponds and puddles of the after,
i picked up pans, and scraped off pork-and-beans,
i gathered what there was of spare canteens,

i loaded up to keep our westward way,
no one to hear whatever i might say —

so creepy in the silence, ill-at-ease,
but free to do whatever i might please,

i placed some towels along my head for screens,
to prove i was a man
a man
of means

Author: Owen Servant

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

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