The Droghte of March

Chaucer’s dry March starts drizzly,

dark and cold—not Minnesota cold but

cold for Kent, where his pilgrims

ambled to Canterbury, singing, telling

jokes, laughing, farting after a

good lunch, enjoying

each other’s company,

relishing the stories.

 

My fellow pilgrims tonight were

wrapped in the silence of loud

inaudible music while Kent

whooshed inchoately by—

Ebbsfleet, Gravesend, Strood,

Rochester—all starting my

mind from its blocks but

conversation killers here.

 

The train paralleled the ancient road,

the taxi left me at my home on it–

the same road, built by Roman soldiers to

expedite invasion, beckoned pelerins.

It was Friday night and there was

revelry aplenty but I didn’t want to join it as

the pilgrim road now leads to a disco where

the stories are drowned in sound.

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