Cabin Fever

I would never have the follow through.

But I wonder how I’d do it.

One rainy night,

I’ll put on some boots and quietly shuffle out the back door

And tread through miles of bramble, keeping my head held one direction.

Forward.

How far can I go into the woods and still remember the way back home?

How many brooks can I hop across,

How many logs can I balance on,

How many bogs can I let my boots sink into, their rubber surfaces engulfed by the black mud

Before the warm isolation of home is no longer a guarantee?

I am not a writer.

I am not an eagle, or a student, or a son, or a child.

I am every step I take further into the dark,

Screaming at the sky and setting fire to dead limbs as I go

To hell with decorum

Either way, it’s going to hurt

Whether it’s the biting November cold or the musty warm shelter

I’m at a loss

And as the rain pelts my skin

I’ll close my eyes, open my mouth

And try to remember

The way that sunburns hurt