Walking Man

I have decided to become a walking man.
Up the hills and huffing through the dale.
Chickory and queen anne’s lace the sweat
passing by as the clean white tennis shoes
pound gravel and asphalt
but that was then before frogs hatched
and vodka stars blurred into mist
that was before rain twisted the catalpa
and we slept under the deep warmth
of extra blankets,
flashing back
toad stools sliced by destiny
brutal scrotums verbalized to taboo
only thing to do is walk
walk on up that hill
pump through that midnight shadow
swirl like a dervish without a Sufi nearby
or those Scientolgists in the yellow tent
while everyone else in somber fugue
held their pose
while the cameras snapped.

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