Sauntering

When reading this whole thing, listen to Sidney Bechet play his Blue Horizon in order to best understand the tempo for reading. Nod to Somiah. I fell in love with my wife at first sight to this song.

This is what can happen when you land on the other side of a very busy first 6 innings. I am currently in the middle of a very long 7th inning stretch, punctuated with dynamic yawns and naps. Just to be clear, this is an absolutely ludicrous poem with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Any meaning taken is all your fault. No ideas were harmed in the making…except to say that I am attempting the world’s smoothest landing of a life well lived. p.s. you can’t read this thing slow enough.

                                 

                                Sauntering

                  Where are these feet going 
                   and when will they arrive?
                I think that is the town square
                             up ahead but, 
                        it is only very slowly 
                          coming into view.

                  There is a dog on the right,
            not worth noticing, so the less said 
                        about him the better,
            even though he can scratch a flea
             very slowly behind his floppy ear.
              His stiff ear never attracts fleas.
               Other than that no more words 
                      shall be wasted on him
                                except to say
                   that he does love a scratch
                       on the chin but that's
                     just like every other dog.

                          From this distance
                         I can see the waiter. 
               To keep his white apron white,
                   he droops upon his napkin,
               which really should be draped 
                       over his arm but he is
                    tremendously hung over.

                      Even the cat on my left
                cannot be moved into stalking
                that crumb snatching sparrow.
                             So much effort
                     in the late afternoon heat
                                and for what,
                  a small mouthful of feathers?

                          These feet of mine,
                they seem to be moving in aspic
                        heel to toe, heel to toe
                            and nothing more,
                     grudgingly trudging along,
                distracted by a delicious apathy.
          When did everything get so gorgeous?
                         Look at that late light!
                             It's everywhere, it
                          paints every surface, 
                        even the sparrow glows.

                              I will never arrive-
                       such laziness, such sloth.
                  I can’t even remember my goal.
                           Did I even have one? 
                           Have I ever had one?
                   Maybe it was for some coffee
                  and a turn around the fountain?
                             Is that even a goal?

                            I think I may just be
                             a shambling mess,
                     with backward tendencies,
                   but I can’t even be bothered 
                      to turn around and check.
                       Thus ends another futile
                    swipe at blind, raw ambition.

                                   3/23-Cassis