Writing On Stall Walls

Powder

I wish to evaporate in a bolt of lightning

like Powder,

ambling through a field

at staggering velocity.

Unlike Powder,

I want a full mane of hair

lashing my cheeks in the wind,

kind of like the passenger’s seat

of a long ride.

This life

is a long ride.

It’s always a shame

when you hear about fatal accidents,

but suicides: those hold a grain of beauty,

because at least you know the person

got to choose the way their curtains would close.

I don’t claim to be an expert of death,

much more a friend of it,

a lover if you consider how often

it comes up in my thoughts,

like gray whales for air.

Gray whales share the same life span as humans,

but ten times the capacity to hold their breaths.

That’s the stretch with people.

We have a hard time holding things.