a Fool

There's an emptiness that arrives after departure, a reminder of things ignored and forgotten, long before the distraction. The to do list so long, but the tendrils of imagination swirling around the nape of my neck, aren't they always more important than whatever else clouds my judgment? What is this life if not one best devoured in poverty, in creative liberty, what point is the straight and wide when there are side streets and unknown exits off the highway. The car sputters and dies on the corner of my block, how else would I know that I love it now? That it promises freedoms and wilderness? My mother sits on my bright pink couch and says alright then, this makes sense. I make plans to put everything in storage and drive into the American West, into nights of a million stars and books yet unwritten. You call later, knowing full well all the lines already performing inside my head.

I can never thank you enough for all the things you gave me,
and I only didn't for all the things you swept from under my feet.