Upwardly Mobile    by  Bill Fewer

He's getting out, he's moving on.
Can't stay East where the city dies.
Can't climb the mountains, that maze of crooked ridges.
North and South are coastal graveyards
for greying caravan exiles.
He can't stay anywhere there's government and taxes.

So he's going Up
        to fence a few acres to the sky.

A homestead, a shed, his toes warm in a big brass bed.
Heat his coffee on a potbelly stove.
        From all windows an affordable view:

moon and stars, horizon, sky.
Fresh rain for water. Sun for power.
Passing birds his noisy neighbours.

He'll keep two dogs for company
and a paddock of black and white cows.
And if one munches down too far
and tumbles through a fat, juicy cloud,
why he'll round it up, whirling a lasso
Western-style, riding his white-winged Palomino.

And if ever they change the flight paths
and aim their jumbos at him,
he'll just pull out the corner posts
and drift to some new patch of sky.
Maybe over a different continent.
Even over the sea for a while.

© Bill Fewer