Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Somewhere Else


photo by: Patrick Cummings

There are no river boulders to hobble over on long morning walks. There is no porch swing or hammock to fall asleep in after reading only one page. There is no dog anxiously anticipating me to ask if he wants to go for a walk.



Here, fire engines blare alarms, waking me at 4 a.m. Late night snow plow drivers tip mailboxes and pop street pimples for time and a half. Commuters honk horns, hurrying through yellow lights and pedestrian crossings, cursing and avoiding eye contact. Commuters wedge into already cramped train cars to sardine strangers, elbow elders and fall onto me. Everyone is trying to be somewhere else. Somewhere else sooner than now.

This personal bubble bursting life clings to me like painful static. My unread novels look like unfinished book reports. Long desired walks are rejected when laundry needs to be wheeled across the train tracks to the closest laundromat.  I just want a field, a dog and I don't want my clock bullying me any more.

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