There are no dreams like this:
old man learning to go slow
without coming to a stop—
hand let run the smooth flesh
of a time and weather-worn
corral-board table top, sanded
and shellacked, splinters sealed
beneath to become functional.
Scars and crooked fingers trace
the deep grain without calloused
insulation, a new sensation saved
for thin skin that bruises easily.
There are no dreams like this
for whip and spur youth, wide loops
and inflated heroics—yahoo mugs
raised to the wild, to the heavens
howling late into black night
when once I was among them.
drycrikjournal 