David Fuqua

Shorter Days


Maybe it was all chemicals
unbalanced in your brain
or the dresses your mother
made you wear.  Shit.
Writing freed you from
your circumstance.  Maybe
it was the travel,
Key West to Arkansas to
Idaho, back to the Keys
and so forth
for so many years.
Or the celebrity and fame,
on the slopes with stars,
fishing with great men,
warring at the best places,
writing forgettably about it.
Coming back with one small book,
one big prize, and still the travel.
Shit.  At the end, did you pray
for the blessing of shorter days,
bearing weight south to north
as the light you craved
extended your stay? 

 

 

 

 

 

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