Good and well into the Morning

I woke up in the early parts of morning before birds start their hummy little buzzing and rode through the hours where the retired walk the streets in fitness jumpers and sweatbands. Up over the hills that line my home and into the valleys and plains of southern Erie, lead ahead by the morning moon, silver blue on a similar backdrop, the sky fading out of night and into the haze of late August. Still morning, my ears jumped back and forth between the world of dewey chill and summer swelch, folk music rolling over them to remind me that even in pain there are ways to make peace of it all.

Up and down and up and down and standing to peddle and sitting to peddle and being passed by cars, small fast cars that shake with the hum of speakers pushing metal music into the air and big slow rigs stinking my space up with their diesel dark cloud pollution commution. I stopped to write a poem at the edge of trailer park. My lungs burned with the stingy cool cleansing of destroying damage done by last night’s cigarettes, which were available in good supply and shared with great company.

Memories of a gypsy hippie garden traveling rogue, her hair popping from her head like a tree gone to flying, all filled up my own skull until I was certain that blood should start dripping from my nose or ears or eyes or possibly I would sweat screetching screams of elation as I haphazardly swerved back and forth over the gristle and grime of a Pennsylvania back road.

Happy is as happy does, but happy is a busy bug
It toils and tosses and taunts all day
While the flowers sit and soak up the rays
So you be my butter and I’ll be your bee
And you can shine your golden petals on me
But I can’t promise not to sting
Cause promises take the excitement out of the ending.

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