BECKONING

Yesteryear calls out of the blue

in these piebald canyons turning brown

yawning across a shrinking creek

to leave a confidential message—

not in words, but deeds.  Faces,

always faces.  Big George Hubble

in grade school who loaned me a dime

for a lemon bar popsicle

I never paid back. Some call

from out of the ground

that I never knew had gone on

to find their relief.

Some faces leave no names,

or none I can remember,

to console me as I did them

during the paisley days of a jungle war

I missed for a football knee

trying to be a hero.