The Traveler

I go to the third stall, the one with the fish-patterned curtain. Besides the obvious benefit inherent in this particular shower, it also is the stall closest to the boombox. I don't know who donated this wonderful device or for that matter any of the hundred or so cds that spill from unsheathed stacks into the sinks. I can't really begin place when they came. The albums range from 90's alt-rock, indie rock from the late 2000's, to Bruce, Marley, and the entire Green Day discography. It is, inevitably, a prime example of the pockets of magic speckled throughout Abrams Complex; the oddball one-time war-era-hospital I technically reside.

Today, I push the boombox's top, and it's the silver cd labeled "M. Ward mix" in sharpie. I push play and moments later he strums, and begins to croon over the fizz of splashing water. Underneath, the busy weeks are melting away and the entire earth pulls at me again. Here, visions of vistas fill my mind.

I don't know if its the familiar heat, the smell of my Colorado soap, or the blue fishes placed perfectly between me and my familiar songs, but I'm home. M. tells me (and the other guy halfway through his morning routine) that "every town is the same." And even as I reflect on a month of German absurdities, I start to think that maybe he's on to something. I shower blissfully indomitable, thinking about where-to next.

The Walker

There is a ripe, peach-colored aura that heralds each dawn and every dark. It sits between the mountains and divides my life on slopes and into bars.

Here is something on the walker bridges that works to slow my late-for-work gait. Here is something so bouyant in the whispering smokestacks, frozen in the glow.

The same path, same faded colors in the sky. And it's nice to take a breath, knowing full well the days go by too fast in these winter months, and that the sun is just over the horizon.