The weather is good

The weather is good

For the imagination

I am a breaker

Rolling on the sea

The path is an ocean

Carrying me

There is salvation in the air

If not for the flies

The madness of them

There would be glory

Kicking stones

Like a toddler

Throwing acorns

Watching as they land

One day they will be a tree

It is never as easy

As it might sound

The shuffling of old men

Tramping the high ground

Moaning at the inconvenience

Of ceding to the young.

We were all grateful

For the chance to breathe

The air

Make love under the stars.

When darkness falls

Even weak men become brave.

If that is what it is

To do your best

Not to be a thief

A vagabond,

So many people lie to your face

When half light dies.

I steer a course

Through the early morning

Dodging pratfalls

With all the grace

Of a lemon

Fully primed.

The flies think so

Taking their turn

To swarm

I remember those songs

Mendacity dressed as charity,

Feed the children

One crumb at a time.

The flies took the fat of the land

The rest of us floated

Above it

Smugly superior

Hiding colonialism

Between the pages of our poetry

Mouthing the words.

Meaningless ditties

Meant to relieve the guilt

Of privilege.

The flies pay us no mind

Just carry on regardless

I am an early bloomer

And they swarm like bees

To a honey pot