one-hundred-sixty-five.

fortune,
not in a pay cheque.
summer,
on a sunday morning subway ride.

Advertisements

one-hundred-sixty.

a long drive
way into the trees,
so high the sky
is barely visible
until the break in between.
the stream trickling
under the paved bridge
to an open body of aqua,
turquoise-green,
fresh, rocky water.
a quick glimpse of the scene
before you speed by
and the forest looks like a blurry photo,
again.
not enough time to check if the
river was running dry,
but enough to recognize
it was flowing fine.
at first glance.
at first probe.
at first inquisition.

the passenger’s seat.

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.

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.