The Out of Towner

Working out late in the day bench pressing,  
my ass became numb from the pinching slats.
Hitting twenty coffin nails as I blink  
to the tune of Johnny cool  it sinks in.
Little kids trying to feed nesting swans
the corner street barkers hollering  
and over there an art museum with nobody in it.
Colour fades grey in a town with no movement.
I think the kids are onto something...
adjusting my wraparounds I pushed myself up
from the astronaut bench, seeking new frontier.
Java huts and propane lunches fill the air  
with snide step tedium, a wash for purpose.
Behind me I hear little Billy screaming,  
I'm guessing the swans won...
I score a stretch where shadows loom
making shapes dance on the corner, offering sunlight.
Grit lines the sides of macadam as I keep on walking
letting out to a burned down factory.
Who knew the harsh underbelly was Wonderbread?
softened winds blow,in the distance I see a man with his grocery cart.
Fixing his toboggan at the back end of summer,
I swear, these guys see storms coming, I shiver a bit at that.
Making my bee line for the tracks stalking a slow moving train
I catch a hand pulling me in, he says his name is Mark  
just got on and leaving town, "where you headed" I asked
"for adventure" he says proudly "to the hillsides and country time"
Agreeing I said "indeed, sing me the song of home my friend."
Beaming bright he threw cupped sounds of mountains  
to the clacking of direction, while blazing fields threw out red carpets
sundown valleys screaming toward wilderness