Quiet Thursday Afternoon

We've passed the pictured preciseness of specific lonely
fields
Indicated by the accurate acrid smell of encapsulated cotton
bolls
that were unconditionally being stripped away
Baled into 18 wheeler truckload bundles
Squared into oblonged tons
of white Georgia snow that doesn't melt
A place of bluetarp covered honor on the red-orange earthly clay

The non-urban cityscape of smalltown Americana
Beckons in the short term distance
Lee County's century's old courthouse balcony is being painted
White coated, standing out against the newly renovated
red-bricked colonial building

The FM radio station is stepwise stereoed
I'm a million times forever thankful
That I'm not in nearby scenic range
of the Eagle's Hotel California
With it's all pervasive drumbeats,
percussions in perdition
steadily rolling far away,
but traveling ever closer
Haunting the darkened deadpanned palace
existing in the tumbled corner of my mind
Where drug induced entanglements and custom made entrapments
Guarantee my house is not my home

A judgement of released relief
Quiet peace has come to greet me
on the other side of town
Rounded bales of drying hay, tightly bound
Rolled on the brownish-yellow
Chilled November ground
The road ahead has many twisting turns
The autumn trees Bare Naked Ladies
Deciding which delicate shade of green to wear this next year's coming
Spring
Traffic's scant, weather's slightly warm
The clouded sun pretends to make his warming presence known

The next persuasive song comes riding in
on the coattailed signaled waves
a communicated message
sung by Sheryl Crow
Telling me with gentled nudges what I already know
A change will do you good

Indeed I've heeded her astute advice
Letting go of holier-than-thou
heavy metal burdens,
Living high in my unpretentious hideaway
A permanent holiday retreat
At the ever famous Hole-in-the-wall
Where I'm the gold-crowned queen
of all that I survey