Thursday, April 17, 2008


Sitting on the
front porch swing
between the men I loved
I'd hold their gnarled
workman’s hands and
listen to tales of
hardscrabble lives spent
laying railroad ties
logging on the River
interring last remains.

I’d hold their
watches to my ears
attuned to the passing of time
one tick followed another
hard upon
I held my breath
baited for synchronicity but

somehow Time
never seemed to mesh
any tighter than the colors
of their
heterochromial eyes.