Old men talking:
cigarettes and coffee
well before day breaks
over the Western Divide
to blind us all, before
that flaming fireball
spills off the mountains.
No one wants to hear
about those old days
in the saddle when time
was cheap—plodding
with us like a shadow,
working for a dime raise
like it was worth a dollar.
All the bundled string
and brown paper saved
in drawers for another
wrapping, tomato seeds
drying on newsprint—
everyday was routine
with few accolades.
We take license
as survivors now
driving stakes in the ground:
like crank to cell phones
when there were no secrets
on a party line: we listened
for two longs and a short.
Laughable,
what we valued then
and now, how the wind
has changed direction—
how our future spins
just out of reach
and we still chase it.
drycrikjournal 
++++
jk
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