Habituation’s Lure


Habituation eased into town long ago.

Thought to be natural,
It was.
Praised as stability,
It was.
Embraced as destiny,
It was.


Procreation ruled the nights,
delivery-rooms the days.

Time passed, and like flies to a sugar fix,
habituation swarmed bank tellers on payday,
local bars on Friday night,
churches on Sunday.

Workweek habits continued.

Harassment ‘round the water cooler.
Ass kissing ‘round the bosses.
Entitlement ‘round the calling-in-sick phone.

Then something happened.

Times got rough.
Unemployment rose.
Businesses shut down.
Preachers sought donations elsewhere.
Habituation stumbled out of town.

Dark became the memories of enticements.
Cobwebs hung furtively,
tying unlit lamp posts to shattered neon signs.
Side streets to alleyways.
Locked doors to broken windows.

Summer storms passed over
leaving muddy puddles,
their rippled reflections
but gurgling echoes to the moon.

Goodbye waves of regret

Today…

Not far down the road,
a new infestation of impassioned hunters
polish their duplicitous wings,
awaiting yet another bounty of ignorance
to buy into the inducement.

Of both flight and fright.
Believing this.
Believing that.
Unaware that allurement
is a barb of many disguises.

Just as on a clear night,
or a dew-covered sunrise,
wings of abalone color
will flicker from the webs of
habituation's seductive lure,
turning tomorrows entrapment of dreams,
like the captive wings of flies,
Into fractured rainbows fleeing.

Is it not sad to see rainbows running scared?