Rolling Around

I’m lashed to the waterwheel
of a Mississippi riverboat,
My lover, my friends, my family
are up on the riverbank waving
But I am focused on holding my breath
through the nonstop dunkings.
I cannot remember it not being like this.

Don Juan told Carlos Casteneda
to “find his place” on the
porch of the old farmhouse,
And Carlos stayed up all night rolling
around on the porch searching for his place.
I am continuously rolling and careening
through the days, changing lanes,
weaving through endless traffic,
holding my breath, seeking my place
on the porch, sometimes finding
a glimpse of it, only to feel it fade
back into the soundscape of car horns,
whistles, barking dogs, and the minor
pentatonic tones of the blues scale.

by Michael Philips

Comments (2)

Michael, this is so good! A pleasure to read.
Very good! I like poem like that :)