the wastrel

3. the wastrel

plans? none. hopes? well, you’d like to say none. fears? working on ‘em. but not many. loves? i’ve traveled that haunted road with every sky and no matter how slow i walk i always end in a sweat. talk about rides, sometimes i look at the trees and a horse in the field and get thinking that would be easier . . . then i remember i’m a walker. on the road, imperative is burning high, on the return jaunt i’m wiping my eyes with the rag of inevitability. i know my hopes sink – i don’t know where. i’m moving with simplicity, a faith in an origin i’ve seen before. i stop at cemeteries, where i meet people who did their best. i don’t want to join them, but wonder why i got here. strangers can stop me, but i’m getting over shock and effort . . i watch the path. i am not beat. i am wasted.