A Quarter of Two Miles
Even a giant, browning, crinkled map tells of greater bliss
Than its holder, who chest-heavingly glances at his pocket knife called Swiss.
His head thumping to the rhythm of isolatedly crowded forest trees.
His rolled backpack, to which his realization snaps, has grown so heavy he stoops to his knees.
Was this how he would set up camp?
The ruddy survivalism he self-taught deserting him atop a high ramp?
Adventures can be the advent of indelible lusters —
Or ventures ill-advised. Straining to foresee which he’d get, Mr. Isglice dares not breathe any bet.
After all, it is not always pleasant that courage be the virtue one musters;
Chances are, this trip he’ll come to regret.
Stirring with his fingers for matchboxes, bug sprays, and faithful snacks
His wrapped luggage spits out a flashlight and Jules Verne’s book Around the World In 80 Days.
The polished terracotta spine’s bold gold typeface title implores him to relax.
Brushing open pages clad in dust cloaks, Doverl Isglice scouted in his flaring juncture of uncertainty
Illustrations of the unanticipated daredevil Phileas Fogg and his group;
Words richly chronicling place-pacing, danger-facing, heart-racing feats;
Each mimicking the jolting cold water spill’s plea.
A quarter of two miles in, Doverl Isglice felt himself roused to continue on as a troop.
A quarter of two miles never seems tiresome to the some who never tire.
Though not many, Mr. Isglice was one such tireless stock.
A quarter of two miles he decides to walk.
