I spoke of a wish,
nostalgic,
a timeless echo
shadowed my interior dream.
Would I rise alone
pointed
‘watching the wheels go ’round’
a celebration.
I am a quiet man,
obnoxious
in the silence of concern
with little or no expression measured.
Will I soon proceed,
my freedom granted, I can
walk, swim, dance, cascade
upon a world in and around my own.
Where did it go,
the day on the beach I wrote home,
she said it was like a
letter from Yeats to his mother.
Just before the door
permanently closed and fashion
became a measured
reaction to my economy.
Reckless abandon is the preferred
action will define my internal society.
