Today is the day I will let it all go. <br />Pages of words, awkward <br />and odd, will cease <br />to consume my valuable time. <br /> <br />Real life awaits- the only true poem <br />worth reading. <br /> <br />I head to the gym, parking right up <br />front by the door. After all, I mean <br />it this time. I climb on a treadmill. <br />Billy Collins and Robert Frost, <br />having been left home, collect <br />measurable dust and curse <br />my absence. I am sure of it. <br />I peruse the offered reading- <br />Forbes, too dry, Vogue, please. <br />I settle on Rolling Stone. <br /> <br />As my pace quickens, so too <br />does my speed of flipping <br />the giant pages. Glossy faces <br />and tattooed pectorals glare at me <br />boldly. Their defiant look <br />tells of those more defined <br />in their purpose in life. <br />Their glittering ears <br />and uncommon extras declare <br />validation, success, and more <br />than limited fame. <br />I should have learned to play the guitar. <br /> <br />I reach the end not a moment too soon, <br />shower, change and head outside. <br />It is partly cloudy, but I see sun eyes <br />and cloud hands playing <br />hide and seek with my moods. <br />Is that a metaphor? Too cliché? <br />Focus. <br /> <br />I leadfoot it home to the safety <br />I know, my mind swirling <br />with hunger for a deeper <br />distraction. Perhaps I will scale <br />the Great Wall of China, <br />ski the Alps or hunt <br />pearls in the deep. I log on to <br />see that the shortest of these <br />means a ten hour flight. <br /> <br />The coffee is ready and my muscles are sore. <br />Maybe I'll just write a poem about it. <br />I slump in my chair and glance over <br />at Collins. I'm sure I see him smirk <br />beneath the dust.<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-poem-i-will-ever-write/
