up later than most
second wind
asleep at the desk
spinning the wheel
not to particular
about which direction
he is facing
as long as he can see
he closes his eyes
to hear the rain outside
with each pass
he swings closer to
the ground thoughts
like smoke
think and swirling
around and he’s nearly
dizzy and half falling
asleep but always puffin tough
one hundred one years later
a legacy ends in the city where
it all started it’s too late
now but somehow his coffee
is still warm he is in the basement
contemplating one hundred
and one years some trees
might not live as long
up later than most
second maybe third wind
caught him in a sandstorm
luckily his eyes were shut
and mouth was closed
tight like a fist raised
and used as a hammer
to pound a point across
thirty minutes pass like thirty seconds
intervals in between thoughts
and quick rest periods…
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