Walkabout November o8, 2015

Yes! A new poem! Not sure I'm totally pleased with it. But it feels, at this moment, right. may change it later .  . . I always seem to find new things to say on a subject way after the time I think it is "perfect!"

Walkabout

 

I’ve grown too conservative for my own damn feet.

Their need for wandering makes me older than
I wish to be. Too dark these days the alleyways
they long to drag me through. Too treacherous
those angry roads I once laid claim to.

 

Restrictions on such rebellious behavior from my shoes?

I allow them no more than eight or nine hours of wandering.
A single walkabout each and every night beneath
the electric glow of my subconscious mind.
There they can go wherever they care to go
and roam where they damn well please
while the rest of me lays sleeping.

Pleasant dreams, perhaps, a nightmare or two?

They don’t mind the troubles they might get into.
Shady things living there. Deep inside the corners
where the shadows hang. Portals leading
to those other shadows,  the other creatures that
my memory-self dares not think about.

 

Morons the both of ‘em. Like drunken teenagers,

rebellious at best. Seeking out exotic and often
dangerous places where I would never go when awake.

 

But as much as I hate it, I have to face it.

The bottoms of my feet are tougher
than my inner sole that spend the days
worrying and begrudgingly remembering
how wondrous a thing it is (or was)
to walkabout  every now and then
among the living  and the dead.
What a lovely, lovely thing it is (or was)
conversing with my fellow idiots.
Woodie 11-o5-15