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Aboard This Idling Time
Canada geese arrowing south,
Black-op's drone's hum overhead,
their silhouettes caught in the last blush
of a winter sun.
Old woman
sweeping gray hair back into gold
as she bends to a labor
only her eyes remember.
I am going to sell-up,
take this patch of land,
and farm myself out
as a useless yellow hound
for kids to miss
every time
I stupidly kill myself.
The days are chained to each other,
I am ready to jump off
this old blanked-out window
loco
motive-lessness,
follow the geese
to where weird aircraft
are considered the new norm,
and question nothing -
all answers are soft landmines
for the heavy-footed.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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