An apple lying two small divots
from the base of a tree,
I inherit inertia.
The son of a son of a son of a son of a farmer -
harvest, market,
settle up, rest.
Success is an even account.
Await the herald of spring.
Repeat.

In youth
I ran to knowledge
like a sponge at a spill.
Everything I wanted
was in the course
not at the goal.

After thirteen years of
trying to make Her happy,
my cup was long past empty.
A vacuum ******* in dregs
discarded on a back room floor.

After twenty years of
trying to make Him happy,
I float on a buoyancy
that stymies the sunrise
by flirting with sunset.

Now past greenhorn salad days,
a compass flutters.
The poles deconstructed,
magnets refute desire.

Comrades say their differences
make them Beautiful.
I am Beautiful because I survived.
If I am different,
that requires an entirely new stanza.

I rest this pole on my shoulder.
Tied in an orange bandana :
an apple, a sponge,
a compass,
a vacuum, a jar of buoyant air.
I am Weary Willie
setting course
on open path.