The night oppresses my regretful mind
until perception of a dream can start-
I soon behold relationships enshrined
in galleries of existential art.
I haven't managed friendships very well,
and ego shares so much of useless blame,
past comrades speak in voices keen to tell
that guilt produced the man that I became.
Artistic walls of confidantes profess
remorse is human, letting you rebound.
I try to wake myself, without success;
my friends in vivid colors gather round.
The walls become a ceiling's lucid hues,
a dreamt relief when clashing with the blues.
I miss girders, joists,
and vast swinging cranes tending
tall towers of steel.
Construction is now delayed--
Who stole my erector set?
Another excursion, another small town,
a southwest sabbatical starting to drag,
with similar Main Streets and storefronts of brown,
each quaint city hall and its wind-tattered flag.
I'm walking in Prescott in midsummer heat,
deciding to stroll off the main boulevard,
on Whiskey Row Alley, the signs would repeat,
where once drunken locals had staggered and sparred.
A wall of dried stucco and paint would appear,
a colorful mural that seemed out of place,
depicting the past with such passion and cheer,
and each painted person as one to embrace.
The artists took care to present in best light
historic events and the ones who took part,
with pride, it was obvious, bold, yet polite,
I stare at the beauty they sought to impart.
I think of my feeling when first I arrived,
No matter the look of a township's confines,
the age of the sidewalks, if businesses thrived,
a city is people, not buildings and signs.
The goal of meeting productivity
is like a circus monkey on his back,
he knows his vast experience is key,
but can't predict this market out of whack.
Distractions in the center ring prepare
for what economies might do today,
and media, not heeding quiet prayer,
reports mad politics in disarray.
So what is he to do to keep their jobs?
The weight of workers' hope and open floor
is wearing, and executives, all snobs,
park Beemers where their workers can't ignore.
The savior for the circus will arrive
when markets turn again and come alive.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.