Drop Out

After waking up in a dilapidated fishing shack,
concealed by cattails, teal paint peeling,
he watches white and black buffleheads
waterski in the sodalite sunrise.

Rust-colored ruddy ducks court
in tide pools, dating season at the Jersey shore,
before deciding who to hitch north with
for the upcoming mating season.

He’s thinking of hitching north too
possibly catch some spring trail work
in the White Mountains or do some planting
for an organic farm-to-table in Vermont.

Then maybe he’ll follow a jam band’s summer tour
out west, sling grilled cheese in parking lots.
Meet up with some trimmigrants,
spend the fall clipping marijuana plants.

He doesn’t see any reason to set up camp
on the quicksand of brick-and-mortar poverty
without the excuse of kids
or a sick mother when he could be poor anywhere⁠—

80% of the hippies living in Haiku, Maui
haven’t used currency in years.
He finds the longer he skirts the system
the less he needs it, not waiting to grow wings.