On The Road Again

If you were an Oxfam chugger, why would you try to stop someone struggling home (obviously, where else) with three unwieldy under-bed boxes?  Ask yourself that, Mr Oxfam Chugger. 

I've noticed today the smallest linguistic leap forward.  There were three occasions where I said something without the tortured process of thinking it out first.  This is a small but significant step.  In French I mean.  I can manage quite well in English.

Last night I thought I'd enter this poetry competition, only to write the poem ($2000 prize!) and then find I was ineligible due the slight oversight of my not living in the USA.  So bollocks, you lot can have it instead.  Forgive me if this isn't really your thing.  You had to write a poem with a theme of "The Road".  I did something a bit clever-cloggsy with a sonnet.  Probably wouldn't have won anyway as it's not very American. 

Road to Somewhere

We’ve been this way before.  Didn’t we meet

ourselves, sweating stones in the rough,

breaking rocks to cast before our feet,

as if the road were not already sharp enough?

You were wearing never quite enough

and the edges of your jacket didn’t meet.

We’ve been here, surely.  Feeling rough,

with last night’s rolling vodka at our feet.

The rocks are waiting for your naked feet

and when will we decide enough’s enough?

Perhaps I’ll learn to talk to those I meet

and sketch or throw a life, however rough.

And one rough road will not perturb these feet.

Maybe I will be enough for what they meet.