skiing drunk

he’d skied all his life
some said like a pro
he liked the feel of
skis under his feet
the wind in his face
the crunching sound
of the crusty snow
the freedom of it all
the getaway time
from the hassles of
his hard driven life
drunk on the slopes
he skied erratically
lost control of skis
into a deadly tree
his skiing days
his forty years of
life gone forever

Bob Boyd

Author: BobBoyd

79, cancer survivor, work out 3 times a week, ride my exercise bike 2 hours daily. Began writing poetry October 2023, living in Greensboro, North Carolina, retired and enjoying a reclusive, solo, ever seeking knowledge life. View all posts by BobBoyd