struck

The drinks were cold,

melting into rotten brown tables

with cracks identifying rich history.

Making a new finish,

surfacing the wood with hickory hearts

and stained smiles.

Forks turn toward one another,

puncturing the surface only to create

a mark never to be forgotten.

Conversations leaning, chairs moving,

eyes drifting toward the unknown.

The room fades as prongs gently touch.

The strength of metal draws like species

together, however guilt forces them away.

What a shame that similar utensils cannot

tango at dinner time. 

the final march

Groves of trees, green for miles.

No mountain ridges to depict a location.

Easily lost for miles with anticipation of obtaining freedom,

however finding only pine cones resting in the sand.

Humidity in the air—

pollen dropping, creating a layer of yellow dust

similar to volcano ash over Washington state.

The heat builds up internally,

and eventually the eruption creates a noise,

echoing for miles across vast plains.

Marching toward silence with sore shoulders,

but enjoying the volume today.