one-hundred-forty-four.

a dark room,
morning light through the skylight.
branches peaking, brittle and still,
it smells like muffins and old bookcases.
a cobweb dangles from the highest point on the chandelier,
the free-standing coat rack could be from a movie.

a bed and breakfast, small town dreaming.

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one-hundred-thirty-four.

ninety-nine per cent wearing a scowl and fitted dress pants.
elbows crushed, close quarters.
a belly aching with hunger,
dreams of quiet, antsy to be home.
hoping for dim lights, a candle.
then, there is that one per cent,
seeking locked eye contact;
once secured, a soft smile.

riding the rocket with the one in the red pants.

one-hundred-twenty-six.

logs of wood burn
in a house down the street.
the wind carries
the smell of soft smoke
from the chimney,
through the park
and it meets you at your feet.
time travel, mind travel:
to the screen door opening,
a wool plaid coat
and untied taupe work boots;
watching the flames grow,
taller, stronger,
safe amongst stone;
sliced apples without skin,
bite after bite.
you’re on a free flight,
no layovers.
a one-way ticket to
a simpler time.