Color Me Blue

             Six hours ago I bagged Mount Adams, skiing down 7500 feet of volcanic vertical. Now home behind the keys, I am in the valley of death. The brain storm tonight is dark and gloomy, passing more judgements than thoughts. I’m happy she moved on, I never will. I never do. The old game of cat and mouse and I am the mouse. The cat’s whiskers tingle down my spine. My small, fragile spine. It would take nothing to break it. I swing for the stars, running in circles, just to return to my cold seat on the bench. Home run they shout, but I can’t hear them. Goddamn, man child.  

              Who am I chasing up this hill? Is it the global business executive that wants to kill himself? Or me? Holy hell this man is fast, possibly faster than me. Is he running from me? No, himself. Us that swing for the fence, we know there is more. We expect a whole lot. But alas, I am just a sleepy door mouse. It is so cold here and I am so small, can I have a hug? Not in this household, a firm handshake and a get back to work is all I get. In this place of pain, I swing so fucking hard. Beating before me is the bloody red fence. I do not see it, but through it, per se. It is there, but what is over? I let out a volent exhale straight through my clenched jaw. I ski harder, through the bloody boot packers and weeping chicken heads. Am I passing men or mice? Only a mouse could think such skittering thoughts. I top out, it is all downhill from here. I rip my skin off and my heart falls aside. If I’m so small, why don’t I wear a helmet? Nobody likes mice anyways, all they do is run and hide. So why are they everywhere? Home run! Radio static falls silent.

The lows par the highs, yet it is the high side I ride. Blowing through the spring corn, gaping mother’s gorgeous sun cups, and all I can see is that damn fence. Through the damn fence. Do the southwest shoots go? No fall zone? Now, this is the high side. Maybe we are all mice, scampering from the impending cat. We know he is there, so what shall we do? If all men are mice, are all mice men? It couldn’t be that simple, but, it is. You're just a man, it's just what you do.