Walk down by the railroad tracks with the broken glass and standing water. Pass the fork in the trail where one road leads to the houseless folks and the other to smell of something dying. Cross the bridge where the children die and head all the way down to where the egos explode. It’s a campground in the old haunts and a chain bolted to the wall for the fish in the bowl. Country music on repeat and seven Saturdays a month. The dog will lose his appetite if there isn’t enough attention.
Walk more. Look less.
Rake the leaves off the driveway and wonder why there aren’t enough limbs on the tree. Fire holes and long forgotten loves. Ridges on the edge of town and rows and rows of soup cans. Time stops and all the restaurants change names. You never get to go backwards and you’ll only ever be brooding. Write it all down on paper and film it. Go back to art and do what feels good.
Clouds. Rain. Sunday.
Get a box and put everything it. Fill it full and tape it shut and mail it off to some address in the distance. Nothing to see here, folks. Go on home.
Live. Lake. Love.