In the Sea-Tac airport
the Tuesday before Thanksgiving,
I wait for a plane to D.C.
Before I get far, my mind starts
thinking again. Down the
road again. One thing
I can say for certain
amongst this bustle, this
flurry of air-bound maniacs,
is: I’d like it best to stay
in one place for a time,
for the rest of my time.
A transitionless life;
a lawn chair in dry heat
spent with dead friends.
My heart filled with
empty tallboys and ash.
I want to go nowhere.
Mouth Thorn 