The big chief rest Taurus tear ants at the picnic.

standing waiting for seats in a booth

i wished I’d had a taxi waiting

I should asked for the number 

of the woman on the plane

the rides seemed hollow

my intuition left in a departure lounge

trusts is this funny thing

like that four letter word called love

or a runny nose

it comes it goes, where it’s lost

probably at a bus stop in a town in the back of beyond

i wish I’d got lost like my luggage

what did they hope to find in this

self styled package holiday whistle stop tour

i packed my rucksack

i found a land not like the television from a window

it was better than I hoped stars but none on show

the type writer I was missing

the blocks the free form  avenues

my mind singular and detached

i can’t see the endings which is always good

it means I keep writing

the flights the delays the lose change

someone’s anger I see it doesn’t want to board that plane

i do so I can travel that road again

right place right time 

that map that compass

roll the globe and let’s go again

a new place a new town

next time a better plan

Or one to start

Another free form canvas adventure.