Late night coffee,
smell permeates the little house.
2 a.m., wide awake
Lover sleeps beside me,
so simply beautiful
and my beloved dog is on the floor.
Dead heat, summer nights
dreaming of the west coast
and things I’ve never seen,
maybe a hippie van
painted with flowers and peace symbols
to take me everywhere…
Silly teenage dream
still sounds good to me.
Guess I never did grow up.
They say dreams die in this town
but I think they died when I left
and came back, everyone I know
moved away and I remain
standing by the four ways past midnight.
Another karaoke night through,
smoking in the parking lot,
A friend said don’t settle for just mediocre;
there’s so much more out there.
He sold a house on Vancouver Island
to be with his kids in Alberta.
With a cold autumn wind starting to sneak in
he says in a year or two he’ll return
to the west coast, nothing here
ever worked out.
I keep saying the same thing.
The stories are all the same,
just molded to a different face.
They come to find something better
and they find maybe dreams
really do die here.
I just don’t know anymore.
can’t make up my mind whether to
flee or remain
just like butterflies…
fly away from me…
It’s family, I told him,
keeping me here
when he asked
‘What are you still doing here?’
Words that still echo in my head.
Been asking myself that for years,
if I’m just staying where it’s comfortable.
Can’t seem to face the world out there,
like wildflowers every spring;
they’re always different
when they return.
Another friend says
he might be gone east this fall
if things don’t work out anymore,
a decade old friendship gone to Hell.
Hugged him, told him to do what he felt best,
standing outside the little pub
smoking, like I’ve done so many nights.
As the last of the vagabonds like me leave
it’s making me think
What am I still doing here?
And somewhere on the wind
beneath the bright lit city
You keep coming back
to things you cannot change…
they’re all ghosts long by now…
Photo by Lavinia Thompson