Hard Times

I just want a blast

To smoke a hard yard

Those little white chips

Are my joy.

Barefoot on Blacktop

The concrete heat burnt black the souls of his feet as he walked in a direction not known to the happy man,

Unsure of where he was going, only knowing where he'd been, his footfalls were repetitive, overkill, not unlike beating a dead horse with a stick.

Walking away from provocation,  away from altercation, trying to be the bigger man, angered and misunderstood, perhaps he didn't do all he could to make them understand, one does what one can, walking away felt good.

The road was his home now, he didn't need them anyhow, happiness didn't exist behind him it must, he figured, lay over the horizon. But he would need nightly shelter and food, he had his best judgement and prudence, all he needed was providence, well evidenced by his lack of shoes, I'm never going back he told himself, not after everything they put me through, if only they knew.

And back home his father sat alone, his thoughts trailing after his son.