We deal with
the suns rejection for ten months of the year,
Consoling
our sorrows with rich warm foods and deep brown coffee stouts;
We strive to
validate the rain and its comfort.
But we can
still feel its selfishness pour down on us drop by drop,
Dragging us
slowly but fiercely into its depressive state.
That
egotistical bitch would always win me over.
Suddenly, jasmine,
honeysuckle and lavender would penetrate our nostrils and fill our brains,
Puck the
trickster starts to prank us all and our hearts turn soft and hands get lonely,
And there is
no use searching too long for other hands to hold,
For all you
have to do is wake up.
Lusty
tomatoes get round and blush for the perseverant sun.
Getting high
on sweet dark berries and staying up way past our bedtimes.
Days trickle
by in a sticky sensual way,
And we all
say we hate it, with a smile on our lips.
Walkers,
hikers, climbers, runners, always moving on and on;
Stepping
through forests in a hurried fashion,
Taking in
views for a split second,
Eyes and
mind are always up and forward.
Next river,
next mountain, next trail is always on our minds,
The camera
clicks, the trail mix is gone, and the cars are washed up.
Same water,
same sand, same dirt on their bodies and souls.
We all
serving, cooking, selling this and that,
Selling
smiles and attitudes for the regulars,
Portland
spirit is thrown in for a generous tip.
It will all
make sense at the end of the night,
At a dark
bar full of the same strangers,
Over a pint
brimming full of lost hopes and dreams.
That is when
it all makes sense.
Bearded men
with warm eyes and old flannel shirts,
Sitting on a
stool at a bar, a manly throne for a night they will forget.
They have a
sweetness that spills from their mouths into pretty girls ears,
Till their
vision turns yellow and their breath smells like honeycomb candy.
Soft bellied
girls, their tattooed sleeves creeps into their hearts,
Each picture
tells an ingenious story they love to reject sharing.
Drinking
beers with hops and whiskies on clever little glasses,
Always
striving to make a point.
No one dares
tell them there are no points to make anymore.
A new
sticker, saying, team or tattoo comes up every once in a while,
We wear them
with abnormal pride and general disgust,
Yeah, I am
part of it,
Portland, City
of Roses,
Those
stinking sweet roses.
