Here it comes
That wanderlust, again.
It's beating on my door,
It's calling to its friend.
That old desire
To grab my things.
To move on.
To breathe new air.
Stale, smoggy, fresh and clear.
Doesn't matter.
Long as it's new.
Here it is
Peeking through the slits in my blinds
That wanderlust, again.
A rope tied around my waist
Pulling me.
My feet follow willingly.
My boots are old, the soles are coming loose.
Hanging limply off the cracked leather,
A lolling tongue in a dead man's mouth,
Exposing the sharp points of many nails.
I know how to hammer the nails back into the soul,
How to attach the bottom to the boot.
I have to pound it in.
Pound it in with my footsteps.
Each pace another hammer blow,
Each journey a million more strikes on my anvil,
Keeping my soul intact.
Feeding her,
The wanderlust.
Until she is satiated.
Here it comes.
It won't be denied.
That wanderlust, again.
© 2000 Michael Yanovich