The sun bears down
to peel another layer,
despite the sunblock,
gray whiskers and
my dusty Atwood—
despite the two
hundred fifty-seven
dollar plastic jug
of hydrocortisone
to get the red out
of fresh new skin
stretched across
my cheekbones
without the canyons
time has cut.
I was invincible once,
dared the elements,
cussed God, my father
and humanity—
not always under
my heavy breathing.
O’ sweet youth,
what did you prove—
or improve—really?
drycrikjournal 