I see people moving past my window
and I just want to tell them
there’s no better place here or there;
it’s all the same.
I used to think the sandy beach was
worse than the loamy forest floor,
that the smell of diesel was better
than the faint aroma of ball point ink.
I remember racing to intercept messages
that would get me a beating
but the frantic race did more damage
with all the possible outcomes in my head.
I am slower now and I can’t tell
if it’s my body or my will submitting,
if it’s weariness of age or beauty of grace
allowing me to breathe.
I want to keep asking questions
but I do not need answers;
I am curious about how the air changes
around different feelings.
I wonder if it is worth checking
how the moonlight will strike tonight.