I'm in a house
unknown to the child
within.
The garage has
boxes,
containers.
My childhood.
Toys
blankies
my first dogs.
The stuffed variety.
The house I knew.
Bulldozed.
Paved over.
A new Mormon church.
The irony
doesn't escape me.
The field ,
the tree line,
my dogs and I
wandered.
Countless
imaginary adventures.
The solace of
solo childhood.
A road.
A subdivision.
A pre-manufactured
facsimile.
A whole town
fat and bloated.
Cancerous growth
across the desert.
Everything changes.
Except man's sloth,
greed,
need,
at an ever-growing
speed.
To the edge
of the canyon.
Over the sustainable
limit.
Of rationality.
Obvious answers
abound.
Yet we still demand,
more for less.
Not accounting.
True costs.
To be paid.
Eventually.
All comes around.
A snake eating its tail.
Our plastics
choke baby seals.
Hold our food.
Depletes our supply.
Causes melanomas.
Thank you Mr DuPont.
Environmentalist rant.
Brought on by a lack of place.
People wonder,
why I wander.
I'm just looking for home.
Instead of a storage unit.
Or is that precisely what I want?
Is it where the heart is?
Where my dog is?
Are they the same.
Could it be her?
Or is that better reason to go?
I feel bad.
Smiling and nodding.
The good boyfriend.
While I cruise away,
in my mind,
the eventual trek.
Always solo.
Inner,
outer,
exploration.
In a few short weeks,
from a small world,
the stratosphere,
a warm cozy place,
thinking I was going to die,
breathless,
broken,
cold.
Could be worse.
Death in a cubicle,
florescent poisoning.
Paper cut to death.
Better malaria,
snake bit,
hi-jacked by bandits.
Better stories to tell,
than years of
monotony.
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