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.
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