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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