Running Out of Steam

The giant paddle wheels

turned through the muddy

waters of the Mississippi as

dragonflies zipped through

the humid air.

In the thick forests along the

watery banks, cicada’s buzzed

in their urgency to mate, as soon

as possible, before they have to

die.

The steam stacks, billowing out

clouds of heavy vapor, adding to the

already thick mid-afternoon air,

that was already bulging with rain

on the horizon.

No. Wait…, that’s not a riverboat,

There’s no muddy Mississippi,

that’s just here, in my office, while

I try to keep my steam going to

complete these Monday tasks.

You see, I’m running out of steam

to keep up any enthusiasm for these

mundane Monday chores we’re all

saddled with after such a long and

pleasant weekend.

That ringing isn’t a steamboat whistle,

it’s my office phone, burdening me with the

ills and distemper of the other Earthly

passengers. All needy and corrupted by

false privilege.    

Yet the Walter Mitty of my mind still

dreams of Steamboat adventures,

and the “Tah-pucketah-pucketah-tah pucketah”,

of the steam engines, turning the paddle wheels

through the waters of the muddy Mississippi.