June

How odd to think we'll see seventy Junes;
Some more, some less, that only a fool would
Dare squander thirty endless afternoons
And not be lost at sea or winding woods.

When summer's effervescent breath beckons
And hazy lights adorn the crowded pier,
Reflecting fuchsia waves that every second
Deliver bottled message souvenirs.

A month with wild subtleties and wonder,
Its beauty often hid beneath a mask;
Without the telltale fireworks and thunder
All too often evades our dazzled grasp.

So now we wait another dozen moons
To feel the fleeting lover that is June.

Heading Home

5 o'clock tocks,
The pedals are starting blocks,
The road a runway,
To run away,
Nay, to fly away.
A fly-way
From the work day.

The rattle in the shift
From deskclerk to legwork.
Some rift from lurking,
A gift
To not be working.

Some cars startle
Me passing by.
I pass by
Passersby
Like they're on standby,
Asking why,
Marveling.

Glide by side streets
Downtown, upbeat.
Downhill slipstream.
Sunshine thrills me.
Back pack tucked back,
Straps of that rucksack
Flail like exhaust gas.
Dual mode smokestacks
like baby, baby, baby, oh,
5 o'clock,
heading home.