The Feathered Whim of a Daydream
Every day I clock in, by opening my eyes, and go through the motions like a caretaker managing the grounds performing minor repairs when what I secretly long to be is a hobo, riding the rails, singing Waltzing Matilda at the top of my lungs, weaving through the clouds that I would love to slip into like a puffer jacket if they would just open their arms. I would spend more time in the now but it has been far too punishing lately as if the guy in charge of the carousel is hammered and off somewhere having himself a smoke while we all spin out of control flying off horses and elephants. So I choose to fly away as often as possible. on the feathered whim of a daydream to return to a time when flowers were currency dating was a holy expedition aging was inconceivable and being merciful was as effortless as saying I love you too.