and go places anew,
open my eyes
under new skies,
see new before-noons,
neon in the welcome
of my wanton wonder.
I miss New York
when I am not in it,
when I am not with it,
like an abusive lover.
but my root beer theory
of anonymity
has me yearning
to go ice fishing
along the banks of the St. Lawrence.
and my wanderlust
has me flying to Florida
every weekend
just to stay moving,
just to stay alive.
itching to head west,
like Kerouac
before a heart attack,
with music in my mind,
memories in my nostrils,
new adventures in the air,
and chaos around any corner.
I can't sit still,
even if the bed
is comfy
and the company
is curious.
running is my reason
and I leave
like the air
from lost lungs.