All my meals come from cans,
Fire produced for heat and light,
Dirt carpet, trees for walls,
My ceiling is painted sky.
We amble through chatter,
One-liners, quick banter,
Once I hear silence and breeze,
It doesn't seem to matter.
My lounge suite is an old chair,
Covered in ash, stinking of beer,
Brought from home, now a part of me,
And part of my home that I brought with me.
With left leg sprawled where my arm should be,
And my back angled in such a way,
Head tilted on the edge of the back rest,
This is exactly where I should be.
As the sun sets and the sky does its thing,
All the wildlife around sings its goodnight hymn,
We cheers and rejoice, me and thoughts,
And the apprentice, across from the fire pit.
An angry, empty belly quivers and roars,
It's time to feed the beast within,
All my meals come from cans,
But, I forgot my can-opener.
I work away a lot, we often camp, swags usually. Disconnecting is the best way to reconnect.
Good times.