The Point of It All

You’ll never settle down.

Always driving, always flying,

your feet never touching the ground.

So don’t get mad

when I ask,

“What’s the point of it all?”

You’ll never be my garden,

my home full of children,

just a long forgotten fantasy 

cast to the edges of my fleeting mind.

You can say you love me,

that you care,

but don’t lie and say you’ll stay. 

By the time you decide

that you’re done in your rambling ways,

I’ll be outside

in my garden,

hearing my children fill the hills with laughter,

holding the hand of a man 

who kept true to his promises. 

Too late for you.

Too late for us. 

You can no longer drop your bags at my front door.

Oh, rambling man,

do what you do best. 

Take your bags 

and drive and fly.

Don’t make me fantasize anymore.

Just leave.