Frequent Flyer

I’m filling my duffel bag,
And I’m not sure it matters
What I put in it anymore.
Everything is in tatters.

It isn’t their fault, the town.
I know I’ve complained angrily,
I just started off on the wrong foot,
And never got my balance under me.

This place felt like open surgery,
Like a medic’s field dressing,
But having it happen here
Was its own blessing.

I wonder what I’ll look like,
What kind of cartoon I’ll be
In years to come, to anyone
Who might remember me.

Consistency
Is consistent rejection
I don’t think I can maintain
On my current projection.

The everyday becomes monotonous.
Did the prodigal cut and run
From his family
Or the constant hum

I can’t be more than
What I’m not.
I’ve been blessed to get
As much as I got.

My memory isn’t great.
I’m not even sure
What I was fighting so hard
To secure

A house in a field?
A husband? A friend?
The love I could feel
Absent on the other end.

It’ll be or it won’t.
It works or it don’t.

At least this move
Is about closing the past,
Not opening something new
That could never last.

It hasn’t yet come to rest,
But the die is cast.