on the bus
on his bike
in the car
and in his mind.
Leaves behind supposed scenarios
dark clouds and her.
He thinks he's
on a holiday
vacating is what he thinks
he has to do.
And he meanders on like this
trying to make up his mind.
Is there a point of return?
So he returns at the end of a day.
Maybe put back together with glue.
Maybe half at a loss of what to do.
Maybe what he thinks is going on is all a trick.
The synapses have misfired.
Or his life is a blip on a monitor.
He gazes into himself and across
the Geiger counter eons of time.
He was told once, his life fell balancing on
the edges of a dime.
She may not be so bad, after all.
The key goes in the door.
Its good to see you.
Glad you're home.
Copyright August 31, 2005 All Rights Reserved By the Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World
Sometimes don't we all go traveling away from our troubles,
what momentarily ails us...sometimes just in our heads, others...well,
you know what I mean. This is an honest piece.
Vote for this poem