Before it became synthetic, a pill one could pop,

I always wanted to swallow ecstasy.

But in my script, I am a minor character.

My lines honeybees, not hornets.

No trumpet solo but a tuba’s repeating two note thump.

Time worn words are shadows 

that wash through gullies 

and fill the retention pond.

Actions that walk to the cliff’s edge 

and peer into a twisted, rock-strewn canyon.

A tailless meteor looking to burn bright

and become meteorite.

Highlights are incandescent bulbs.

The filament flickers and dies.

The Forever Stamps cancelled, 

the envelopes sealed.

I dwell in the well of the past.

A dank musty place

where the only light shines at the end of a tunnel.

Why isn’t it the tropics

where I sleep in a room with a high ceiling,

a fan propelling a welcome breeze.

Instead, I am in a tent, 

curled inside a sleeping bag.

Rain pelts the canvas begging to drown me.

Lemons take their time to ripen 

and are not bitter but sour.