movement

a plane flys over
the city of phoenix
at 2:05
in the morning,

westbound,
probably going to
either san diego
or l.a.

i'm in the lounge
chair,
drinking my beer,
smoking a marlboro,
not thinking of much,
just studying
the hue
of the early morning
clouds.

no doubt
there are people sleeping
on that plane.
no doubt
they were sleeping
in their own beds
just twenty four hours ago.

and i'm thinking,
in one week
i won't be in this lounge chair,
at this house,
with a stream of tiny mountains
watching over me,
anymore,
like i have been
for the past three months.

i won't be
in this town either,

just in another place
where
the restlessness
will reset.