Not here but for the ghosts
Creek, I am here now.
Pine needles brush them.
Come dark, when I rest.
A fallen branch for winter.
Some days I stumble over how I used to be flashy and useless. And then there are days when there are rainbows in the spray of surf that rolls in all the way from the South China Sea.
Slimy with cold sweat and fear, I knew I was in trouble, serious like a heart attack trouble. There was a pain in my chest that wasn’t just bad coke; it was too much of nothing for way too long. The Reaper was finally playing his hand, I could feel him right there, right now, I needed to get out.
I knew from my earlier experience in the 50s that if I was under my Hudson’s Bay blanket I would live forever, safe from whatever idiocies the adult world beyond my control could think up.
The long distance runner in me has come to know how best to let the “run” come to him on the day; and whatever the results, pretty, ugly, awful or so-so that there are some days when “it” all comes together, as if in a dream.
“Tom Petty, who died Monday, was tuned in to the blank spaces between our catastrophes and triumphs, when we are desperately trying to sort out what comes next. When we take to running.” ~ The New Yorker, October3, 2017.
It has been that kind of week and, it is only Tuesday.