Read Walden again to regain
the remains of what’s sane.
Thoreau’s thorough, throughout I thought.
My ache for an acre or two, won’t do.

Sharing berth, sun and earth,
milking time, all its worth.

Persist, exist, merely;
subsist.

Time is the currency of choice.
Steadfast, intent, I avert diversions
pecuniary;

peculiar
habit this nine to five,
it keeps me from keeping
holy,

wholly alive.

Everyday’s a weekend; weakened
daily.

I need to go backwards,
to get ahead, I’m losing
step.

A new cadence, known decadents,
decades of whispering
about different drummers: hum-drum rumbas.

Nobody’s doing this samba,
sadly.  Somnambulists get in the way.

Got to get far away, to get
closure.

A room by a pond, unfurnished to go.
I won’t be sticking around to get stuck.
Bound homeward, upward, northward, and westward,
into the wood, Henry David, I go.

Hi-ho!

© Carlos Chagall, 2013