mothers might know best,
but they are not always right.

I once laid in my bed content
With mama’s prayers tucked in
Listening to trains far off across
River trestles on rails stretched
To places I could only dream of.

Beginner’s luck
The magic strong.
Reality and dreams
Synonymous.
Early the seeds of wanderlust
Planted.

Talents forged of
Cardboard boxes and
Old trunks in the attic
And of games with friends
In woods and streets.
Old Mr. Robling’s eyes looked
Beyond . . .
Child’s play would end
Someday.

That day eventually came in Linear time
But much longer to this
Wandering mind
That thought beyond the grade
School desk when my adolescent
Peer’s noses were buried deep.

Wander and travel lust left this Boy
Rootless and restless when time
Came to stop chasing mirages of
Greener pastures.

He then looked up and saw
His little one’s grown up
With a somewhat similar
Bittersweet taste of chasing
Elusive islands
Of emerald green
Seen as lush vivid images
On their
Built-in larger-than-life
Neural GPS screens
Programmed to ****** the
Wanderer into the delusion that
They can take extended or even
Permanent excursions far from

The
Great
Gray
Banal
Sea.

Not very long ago this ageless
Boy was forced into settling for
Stark reality. But he is slowly
Growing a bit more comfortable
In his own skin.

The grass is still a bit green
But parts are a bit dry
Patchy and crabgrass ridden.

At least it fashionably matches His soul . . .
Poetic justice for trading
Most of your life for the elusive
Obvious.

I still cling tight to my childhood  
In my own non-linear time of
One hundred years ago

But far too young in linear time
To be residing in
A tired old body
Which defines age as value was Once
Measured by quality not
Quantity

And as those running the track
And roaming free over Thousands
Of acres of wide-open plains
As opposed to those put out to Pasture
Or waiting in line

At
The
Glue
Factory.