Walk

A poem about a dogged walk

I lost myself in the dreary and dank skies of heavy air descending on stiff shoulders, and I didn't look with seeing eyes.  I trudged on, pushing my boots into the ground -- thick soggy brown, opened at the lips, and tongue shaggy, flopping lick, a hirsute dog -- and I hirsute and cute in somebody's eyes -- though now my eyes welled with the puss of dirt and wind and rain.  Pain in my ankle.  Pain in my Spain, as I push down, and up I come and out and thump down upon the loose stones that trickle like water now and again, down and off to the side of the path.  I walk this way for too long.  But I know I am coming to something better.  Roast pig.  Fair maidens.  Ah, the dreamery of trudgery -- rhythmic -- and calming soothing foot in boot meditation.