A big
orange and black
butterfly
flutters by
on the final day of summer
as the tune turns
to Sinatra’s lyrics,
“and now, the end
is near…”
When each of your
three favorite seats
in the shade
on benches
alongside the creek
are occupied
by other people
seeking solace
from the sun
at the precise time
when you need to sit down
and hammer out a poem,
the only logical thing to do
is stave off the constant paranoia
that swirls through your brain jelly
and escape the death grip
of OCD primal patterning
to venture off searching for
a new spot to chill out in.
So here it is,
on the side of a hill
under a tree
behind the city Greyhound station.
In the distance,
you see the two sojourners
who were sitting at
the most desired spot
ten minutes ago as you passed by
now strolling past
in the other direction,
which means the main throne
has been vacated
and lays in wait of siege.
But it’s all for the best
to forfeit the crown
because breaking out of comfort zones
is more important
than regurgitating the same
stale scenario for another day.
So here it is,
a poem about how
situations in life
that at first may seem lame
can wind up serving as catalysts
to bring about novel energy.
Then the song switches
to Lennon’s,
“if you want to be like
the folks on the hill.”
So synchronicity
Is riding shotgun
in alignment
with the shuffling
magic music.
And then the steam valve
that releases every day
at noon and five o’clock sharp
from a location in the city
that you never knew precisely
but always wondered about
for the two years
you’ve lived in Frederick
sounds off
straight in front of you
with a righteous hiss.
All mysteries will
be revealed
to those who seek the truth
about the great belch of life.
And if you want to write a poem
and are determined to do so
no matter what
then they’ll keep popping out
after walks of pregnant pause.
