Decades of wrong-footed wandering in the wilds.
God’s poor GPS signal or our ineptitude?
I thought we had a map?
I’m drawing it with crayons as we go.
Yes, dear, we know.
Such poor company
and pointing out the obvious.
Grass, rope-like and grasping
pulling, tripping, slowing
Shall we leave you behind?
No. But you’re going to anyway
if you can.
Journeying to or fleeing from?
It makes a difference you know.
Uncertainty makes for panicked hurrying
I want to go home.
Sorry, it’s not on our itinerary.
it never really existed anyway.
Footsteps playing hide and go seek.
Where can we rest?
Wherever you want
but we can’t promise comfort.
And we’re not waiting.
I’ll keep walking, thanks.
New vistas ahead?
No, just tired reruns.
In every direction
in churned sand
leading nowhere in particular.
Does it even matter anymore?
Let’s find a hill.
I want to see a virgin horizon,
the promise of open miles
instead of dusty shadows in a valley
we never leave.
To breathe fresher air once before we die.
You know there will be a taller vision-blocking hill;
Your glacial pace
and incessant stumbling
would mean exile from this exile
if we had a say.
I’m sorry. It could be different tomorrow.
Hah! Hope is not a fungible commodity.
You spent yours long ago on frivolities.
I don’t think it mattered
then or now.
Let’s just walk
while we can.
Just a land manatee passing time and writing cautionary tales about things best avoided – and occasionally other things.