Boho on the Mountain’s Edge

Tell me it’s a struggle to

Slay knots and be trapped

On your back in a forest,

Where location is everything.

Our group is tight knit with

Funny faces and familiar goofball

Eyes, kids who jump into bushes

And wait.

 

But there’s only one pattern that

Makes sense, his plaid shorts,

A polka-dotted one-piece swimsuit,

Prison stripes on a girl’s shirt.

I’m sure she has no problem with this.

 

Next to the fire, I can fall in love

With a man I’ve been chasing in my dreams,

An always slow and tedious race that results

In cold sweats in the morning.

His olive eyes are real and I can taste

Him. He belongs to the old country.

 

I guess I’ll find him in the picture frames,

Tattered edges that remains soft. Sometimes,

It’s hard to escape the photographs, moments

Where I let him fire the bong for me, my lips,

If he still gives a damn.

 

It’s time to rejoin the parade and shout,

Dwell in the campfire traditions, cold beers,

And a traveling man.

I still can’t tell who’s running.


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Jazziken12
Poetry
Free Verse
writing Jazziken12
To each it's own duende.
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