buried

buried underneath a pile of sliced bark and words, i’m attempting to stay upbeat, looking up, like john waiting patiently by his daddy, quietly hoping that his wish of getting that prized archie comics would be granted. 23 has probably become an enigma that even a solomon can’t make out, leaving only a trail of ice-cream that inveigles none but the ants into a stampede. yet, somehow, i know that all is fine if i could just wriggle out a squiggle on the map. call that punctured navigation.