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Our own rough road too Salzburg
Then, prematurely those familiar cliffs of your morning appear
strangely there is no sea in your blurred dawn viewpoint  just
rolling waves, those same un-swimmable white horses just
rolling in your stomachs pit, galloping wildly, then crashing 
your standing with a gut full of feel, that feel ! of weighted thrown 
iron shoes surprisingly as your breath draws inward its obvious
creeping emptiness, dissolves  any rational plan for your day.

In a small mouse sized space where live, your fags, crumpled bills,
small brown bottles of pills, tea bags, coffee pot and “stale photos”
And in the memories of those “stale photos” minutely blinks a spark 
squeezed out of the creased years of folds, you add up, the gains, and loss, your head turns, away looks up right, as your balanced hand sweaty slips slowly down the paint needing door post, picks up a splinter prick, your pain ridden blood, trickles out, and into your tired eyes, that rough road too Salzburg morning rolls on in.  

Coffee doesn’t cut it anymore, and Gin in the bin is much lighter
you feel like, your a voyeur inside, behind your own eye sockets
gazing out with change in mind, but sadly without the needed plan.
Spilt bouncing runaway coins, unassisted by notes, or cards trip over the mornings  mountains of worries, their as big as the moon
that ache, straightening up, the cat eats, you don’t, no need to feed
while plump, well abused waist lines hanging on celebrities wealth
mouths as big as their bank balance, tell me too give ? What ! Up? 

Each of us stands on our own rough road too Salzburg, 
you cannot compare journeys, media moguls will judge you
each of us fall, on that rough road too Salzburg over and over
but that dirt on trousers and skirt, always breaks your fall.

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