Trapped

Oh, to have a place to go on foot or on a bicycle.
My mind is settled by such means. A drive is nice,
But not the same, too mediated, not quite there.
The sounds are missed. The smells are missed.
The ground cannot be felt, and stopping, turning,
Doubling back require too much time and planning.
Let me be my transportation,...but here there's
No place to go. The bluff is someone else's land.
The river's just a muddy slough which passes by
Beneath high banks. The neighborhood is of
No interest. All the houses look the same,
And, beyond them, unsightly strip malls.
Neighborhoods with fine old homes and shopping
Streets, and downtown's bustle can't be reached
By bike or foot, and, out here, buses do not run.
This house is fine, but it's a prison. In it, my mind
Can't find peace. I pace and look out of its
Windows, wishing there was somewhere nearby
I would like to go.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 39 times
Written on 2020-09-25 at 21:57

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