The sun settles behind the mountains
as we wind around another bend
of the valley road.
The SUV's dash flashes in dim neon
as it illuminates
its controls.
Music is on high
as my two best friends are caught
amidst the throes of laughter
stemming from their cacophonous
attempt at singing
together.
We have been driving for almost fourteen hours
and are mere minutes from our destination:
Vail.
Our final home of a millennium
as the greased dial grinds to "20"
Where better to be when Y2K hails?
I am in the front passenger seat.
I am looking out its window into nothingness.
I am crying.
Today, I’m going to start a series called “Lunch Break Poems,” or “LPB.” I was going to call them “One Hour Poems,” but–alas–I don’t always take an hour for my lunch break. But I do eat! So, Lunch Break Poems.
And really, many of my “attempts” at “poetry” are things written during a break of some sort, or even in my head during a few moments of silence. Therefore, this isn’t really the first lunch break I’ve constructed a poem, or “ditty” as I’m apt to call them, but it is the first “Lunch Break Poem,” because, you know, I never titled them as such until now. Obviously.
Today’s inaugural LPB poem is, “Bristol Wants The Food,” because, well, my dog Bristol wants the food. All. The. Time. It’s written to the tune of Whitey on the Moon, by Justin Hurwitz and Leon Bridges:
Food?
It’s Six-Thirty AM
And Bristol wants the food
I go use the bathroom
And Bristol wants the food
I put on some warm clothes
And Bristol wants the food
I take her for a walk
And Bristol wants the food
I take her back inside
And Bristol wants the food
I watch her whirl around
And Bristol wants the food
I fill a cup of food
And Bristol wants the food
I pour it in her bowl
And Bristol wants the food
I hear her scarf it down
Now Bristol wants the treat.
So if Monday portends
When the work week begins
What day, then, is week’s end?
Sunday, Gregorian’s
Calendar does amend,
Is when the week begins,
And Saturday its end.
But…Monday work begins
So, Friday’s end’s pretend?
I always hear you
Singing
But what if you went
Missing
Home infringed; concrete
Swarming
The Earth once cool; now
Warming
World without you left
Longing
Please please don't go young
Starling
I always hear you
Singing
But what if you went
Missing
Home infringed; concrete
Swarming
The Earth once cool; now
Warming
World without you left
Longing
Please please don't go young
Starling
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