Like an island in the sky,
With clouds and water all around,
My soul expands in ways unbound.
Earth’s cares, shabby bundle, drift by.
Chores remain, I must shop.
Does a gremlin drink the milk?
Just one mischievous in that ilk.
With echoing harmonies of an old doo-wop.
The year’s last day is standing by,
Yesterday’s news, today’s ho-hum,
With broken wings, it can no longer fly.
History covers earth’s dusty dome,
Expecting eyes still scan the sky.
Down here a poem’s words still roam.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.