Sometimes It's Only Good for an Hour

Not one of them knew the color of her smile.
Their eyes stared level, fastening upon
the inevitability of the day,
the rushing approach of darkness 
the glorious mortal weakness
of sleep.

Who could ask children
to know
the fine porcelain of her cheek
or the anticipated thrill
of her lips?

Just as the sand shifts beneath the rolling tracks
of an armored personnel carrier,
the minutes drip through the hourglass

we all wake with revised expectation 
heavily edited, lackluster laundry-lists
of realizable daily tasks.

You could check out anytime you wish.
You could throw your trousers
in a sack, grab some greasepaint,
& hit the open road.

This is what killed Kerouac,
inevitability.

It wasn't the road.
All the intrigues,
 adventures,
romances,
late nights,
early dawnings,...
ad nausem

weren't the culprit of his demise.
Or Cobain & Elvis for that matter.

Our eyes are opened wide
before they slam shut.
The hardest thing is
to unsee.
It's harder
to unknow.

The joy and the speed
and the whirl of this life.
 Tossed from coast to coast
or halfway around the world.

We've woke up in so many beds,
looked through all the windows,
seen the highest resolution,...
How could we go back?
To being simple and naturally occurring
or remotely naive