Enga mellom fjella

One mile closer to Omaha

One mile closer to Omaha

He dreamt of leaving
that punk-ass town,
tired of fighting,
weary,
more.
He hitched
a ride to the corner store
to buy some milk, some eggs, some bread.
Found he'd left his wallet again,
hitched home, hitched back,
bought milk,
bought bread.
For all his troubles
still only one mile closer to Omaha,
and he'd forgot the eggs.

© Kåre Enga 2008 [164.498] 2008-02-05

POETRY:

I write different types of poems. Different forms and different themes.

I sketched part of a Father's Day poem today, wrote one about a fasting vampire, too. Recently, about being inside or outside a group or society, notes about movies (High Noon is one), loss (a common theme), about my ephemera (my writing), pennies (as seen in the eyes of future fishermen), doubts at nighttime.

I've written a couple hundred cinquains. Dabbled with tritinas and other forms.

I write. What can I say.

IMAGES:

Soaked sparrows pecking at seed in the rain. Puddles leaking into my shoes (their souls/soles are broken). Thunder on a winter's night. Sleeping late due to the darkness of the day; no dawn's early light.

Cherries red against the white cottage cheese turning pink with juice; beige of coffee mixed with milk. Purple impatiens and a pepper in bloom; plants holding on till spring.

ME:

I slept in the attic last night because it was mild out and the attic is darker. I slept fine. Listened to the thunder.

Paid rent! Yippee!

Some celebrations are for the little things (the ones I didn't forget).

Ate gnocchi with margarine and parmesan cheese. Very good I thought. Went out to the store last night for milk since it would be nasty weather for a couple days. Yesterday was 65º. One never knows in Kansas.

Kansas: 35º and grey as soaked-old-socks.

2135