If living was lent out in butcher sheet pounds the weight of intent would be immeasurably high
High, like a soaring plane skipping over coastline in a 400 mile per hour glance
Running to another country while a stewardess serves you wine in a plastic cup
Regret is for the weak
Some old wives tale from a world before the Beatles. A war world.
But there’s no war here just uncomfortable seats and a clean serviette
Which helps to take your mind off the recycled air
What do you intend? What do you intend? What great scheme have you laid at your fingertips?
Some corporate feast to pick and choose from, secretaries in tight skirts and stiletto heels clicking over your bedroom hardwood?
Leaving behind the dry earth with its arthritic and rusted branches
An earth that needed you, a family that needed your help
Your mind caught against the tops of skyscrapers, penthouse apartments, New York City boulevard success
Leaving a sunburnt country high and dry in the wake of an unexplained departure
An empty bed that sowed and reaped and nourished you, for what?