Choosy

Mondays arrive in the country, too, although they look different when the clocks tumble away with the weeds. I work through sunrise, watch the colors seep out of the land and turn to fire. The corporate world feels light years away. Let it burn. Were we not meant to sit with our bare feet planted in the earth, whispering poetry into the air, catching miracles on white sheets of paper until they sated us? Were we not meant for more than chasing paychecks while capitalist scarcity shoved itself down our throats? There's a fizzy gin drink with my name on it, there's a turn of phrase that recognizes the sound of my voice, how can I go on pretending I have better things to do with my time. 

The itch returns, Jack pulls up with his beat up jalopy, asks me - no, demands of me - to jump in, the road lies dusty ahead but possible, and damn if that isn't the best word I've heard all year. Tickets appear in the desert, strange roads appear in the summer solstice, I have been sitting still for a whole year and I think maybe
maybe

now we get up.