An Ungoverned Moment

Dawn punches in.
Mum in the hallway; project manager of light;
asks if my compass remembers north.
It does. I prefer west.
The day’s already full of forms.

Dad rings after midnight,
a church bell with opinions.
“What’s your plan, son?”
Same as the Romans: build a road, walk it,
throw a festival at the end.

We weren’t born into the easy dividend.
No trust fund, only trust.
Still, I’m long on sunshine futures,
short on sermons dressed as care.
Give me an ungoverned minute.

They try to box a bloke;
lanyard, compliance slide, password that expires on arrival.
They love a cupboard for the heart.
I prefer doors that argue back,
hinges with a sense of humour.

Call it childish; I’ll call it honest accounting.
Balance sheet reads:
Liabilities; ego, time theft, paying retail.
Assets; mates who answer at 2 a.m.,
a lawn for running, a sky large enough to blame.

I want grass-stain knees,
boot thud, a sideline’s brutal choir.
Not to dodge duty; …no.
We clock on, shoulder the load,
sign for the parcel marked “Consequences.”

After hours, I refuse the small cage.
Loosen the collar; let the engine note
rearrange the ribcage.
Laughter’s hard currency
that doesn’t devalue.

Here’s to busted knuckles that still vote,
to sweat that counts as democracy,
to the modest theology of a cold drink
shared without minutes taken.

They’ll call it regression.
Fine; return me to first principles:
run, lift, laugh, repeat.
Let the sun do its cross-examination.
I’ll answer under oath with breath.

When the graft is done,
I want the rough splendour;
mates, mischief, margin.
Boys; …stubborn, ordinary, unruled;
just want an ungoverned minute of open air.
 

F.S.F.