Vapors ascend the acme face,
sulfur scarred, hardened black,
yellow laced.
Clouds sweep over the outer wall.
Lies on the other side
an expanse of pumice beach.
A noiseless height this place,
that sucks the stress out of feet.
The moment would be perfect,
were it not for the grandson tagging,
whose non stop gab and facial quirks
remind me of a baboon's ass,
severely orange and out of touch
with the present need to absorb the peace and quiet.
Here the wind sails gallantly and circulates silently,
no chirp of bird to assist,
no tick of insect to mitigate.
Were it not for the kid,
I'd speak to God personal.
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