He walks the lesser part of day
along the river’s path slipping
through shifting sand, eyes
pierced for the plumpest, ripest
picks. His face is course, his
fingers hard, he squints away
the western sun – a pail of plums
half-full, Meadowlarks in flight.
Folks,
The August issue of the Red River Review was just posted. It contains poems by Ken and me. Since I’m out of pocket for the next couple of weeks, I thought I’d post the link in lieu of a new poem. I hope you enjoy.
For now,
Alan
There’s heartache in these lines
cracking through once-hard ground
crumbling to course dust.
Sadness drifts here
beneath these yellow Cottonwoods
where old men sit
in distorted circles – a parlor
for the ornery and rejected –
where a can of beer
accompanies a well-worn story
told with fading bravado
fear swallowed in slow gulps.
These grains of river sand
dry in wind, sifting
through time, piled around toes
of shuffling boots, legs
dangling off a tailgate
or sitting awry in a chair
whose fabric is stretched
past the point of brittle.