Somewhere
between red and yellow

Albuquerque and Amarillo
we've run the gamut

you and I
the spectrum

hot and cold
happy and sad

and now
we've settled in the middle

just west of melancholy
with a little bit of rust

around the edges

Deja vu
maybe

in any case
we've been here before

muddy waters
dull days

murky
uncertain future

a crossroads
and all that

A youth
that I'd like to think
was better spent

but so much time
got lost in a flurry
of white noise and fuzz

I say we'll always
have Christmas
not quite Paris

but
close enough
for drinks and cigars

never having to say
you're sorry

but I am
regrets

they hang on me
like tinsel

it's always been
my brother

not me
who could mix up the paint

saw the boards
hammer home the nails

and pour the 'crete
so to speak

and bless him
for doing all that I have never

been able to do
and for being able

to pull me from my own
abstractions

to show me
again

how to clean the roller
and the brushes

and preserve
what others have done

before us

Mason
a skilled worker

who lays units
of substantial material

stone
or maybe brick

spreading mortar
like butter on toast

building one upon
another

you are a quality
a power

to determine action
without restraint

whit howland © 2021

they're glossy
postcards

of places along the road
like a jugular vein

that roped us in
and trapped us but not really

we loved the diversions

zoo animals fudge knives civil war  plates
fiddle players

and most of all
a skillet of ham and throwed rolls

all lozenges
for a feverish mind and a heartsick soul

whit howland © 2021