Early one morning on the road on my way through St. Louis, Missouri. Headed to parts unknown. I looked over at the Gateway to the West and was reminded of an era I used to know. But wasn’t around long enough to live through. Searching for a dot on the map, they called Pluto. “I must have missed it,” I said to myself after I drove for hours and hours. “Either that, or they decided to take it away.”
Like a Dalmatian’s tail on the body of a golden retriever. Or trying to catch a Wiffle Ball on the beach with one hand tied behind your back. With an eye on the storm and the other on time. Everyone I’ve ever known has been the hero to their own tragedy.
As one way or the other. We all fade back into the sea.
On the days I run, I will.