On the Way

Under cumulus slowly
searching for and found a spot
to open up to a fresh blank
page on which can be caught
the structure of getaway.

‘That’s the look,’ she said, glad
of what she snapped of me dreamily
looking at the dirty remainders
of snow on the runs and under
the still and silent chair lifts.

It’s between seasons reasonably
sparse in the tourist town in
April not bustling but highlighting
the scattered noises of dog and truck
not very picturesquely.

Two motorcycles roared by
in arrested development with
loud Van Halen to match
creatures all of us of desires
to firm up identity.

Thinking had been running
for several days along a track
concerned with all the ancestors
who made us and we ignore
on the way to the moment.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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