Ability and sincerity never seem to rise
at the same rate in the pot, boiling over
with that feverish desire to cash in,
get on the train, join in the crowd that is
even now scaling the gates into fortune.
A posthumous breifing on the condition
of the place I grew up in: colored
with tones of sweet mesquite and scrub
oak, whispery winter mornings with cobalt
blue skies and an endless struggle to fit in.
The urge is to close off, build the walls
and escape the escalating pace that leaves so
many behind, languishing in reminiscences
of that time when we could be alone
and so much could happen.
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