Leave from my house

With high hopes

But already the weather's

Taken to change from fair

To less than such

But I wander on because

The city's quiet

And I need it's slow,

Easy, pace,

So I don't turn back.

My feet carry me to the

Library, warm

And I grab a coffee

Climb to the third floor

Sit gazing out through

Giant windows at a

Cold Skinner's Butte. 

I scratch out two poems

With lies for lines.

Still not totally centered

A call from home;

The this's and that's

That make up life,

An hour wandering the streets

Of downtown to the rhythm

Of my mother's voice.

I find myself on top

Of the butte, cold and alone

I hike a short trail to

A hidden alcove

And I smoke a bowl

Watch as night closes in

On the city far below

Lazy lights, streets aglow

I head back down

Have a beer, and wait.