Author Archives: John

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.