Evading their ongoing tragedies
Forty summers spent down in the dirt
Withstanding the weight of apocalypse
Emerging; though slightly less overt
Blast furnace of the afternoon sun
Dali walking barefoot on Tampa’s shores
Pale riders within unabsorbed light
Embracing purity through perception’s doors
The paint of our secret love notes
But can only be read through the keyhole
Shying away from all public renditions
Her passionate words left imprinted on my soul
Leaning against the doorframe
Draped in my best dress shirt
I see you’re in for fun & games
Already cleaned of the day’s dirt
You tease me with a wink
For your essence, I’m a glutton
Every moment my willpower shrinks
As I watch you finger the last button
There’s something to be said for going outside
Wallowing in the dirt, smearing it on your skin
Returning your soul to the Earth, to be truly free
There’s only one life; you’ve got to get it in
Remove society’s reign over your instincts
Dance unhindered; strip & frolic completely bare
Be at peace with the natural world’s glory
Stand proudly and let your nips feel the Spring air
Don’t tell me how’s its gonna be
When you’ve never been
I’ve seen the angry sea
You’re not among the salty men
Don’t act like you have a clue
Clinging to the dirt
You’ve never seen a color that blue
Never felt your soul cringe & hurt
You’re looking for easy praise
Don’t want to be a weathered cog
Riding waves on endless days
You’re still crisp; a mere pollywog
Image by David Mark from Pixabay
“After all, perhaps dirt isn’t really so unhealthy as one is brought up to believe.”
― Agatha Christie, Murder in Mesopotamia
“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”
― Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard’s Egg
Captain Q 