A poem about heading on out

happiness is overrated
dressed up like moderated complacence
i’m a tank without the think
i’ll be drunk without the drink

my telephone agrees with my wall
they both have clocks to make the call
is suppertime around the bend?
i think i’ll take a trip out west

while all these airplane compromises
that i make to make up time
and find myself in oregon state
with a feeling that i’m 10 years too late

a phone call here, a job comes up
and iron ideas looking like rust
but pedals bikes and walking shoes
are sure to keep me on the move

i have a need to get real far
by bus or boat or thumbs and cars
but where am i getting from?
you can’t get there even if you run

a reason here, a work week there
and weekends spent splitting hairs
the finest beard you’ll ever grow
is the one you grow out on the road

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