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.
drycrikjournal 