Hiking and writing was all I ever liked doing,
Even in my younger days.
Everything else seemed to just get in the way,
Mindless hang-ups – nuisances,
Like going to the damn DMV.
But when I could walk through the woods for two days
And then write for three,
Nothing could stop me.
Man, I felt like a giant.
I could sit and write when I woke up,
Take a break and run some hills, –
I have to get in my work out daily
Or I go to crap –
And then go back to my writing in the afternoon,
Lighter work though with some piddling around,
In my room tinkering with books and shelves,
Tidying up, editing some work on the keyboard
And drinking some cheap red wine,
Not the ten-dollar a bottle stuff,
But the four-dollar poison
While I drain out my thoughts onto paper.
That would have made Bukowski proud.
The wine, the writing, the trees, breathing hard,
Is the pithy center of a simple life.