I look back in my life and see vast stretches of dry
brown sand marked by charred stumps of bridges
I have burned. Nubs worn to less each year.
More sun. No moisture in the wind to feed what
once grew. Los arroyos de los llanos estacados
dry washes west of the Pecos to Borracho, Texas.
I see my sons still children in my dreams, could recognize
them among millions, and have no idea who they are.
This tough stone brain has put off reverie beyond reprieve.
Nothing matters about any of it in all that I am now.
Patient parents watch for prodigal sons, but it's a heavy
curse for faithful children to wait on a vagrant old man.
I am known in the cities of the world, and only trace with my eye
beyond where scratchy paths are erased by dust. All my families
are not mine. All my children belong to someone else.
I will go on. I have always done so. I do it well.
But only the greedy or foolish let me approach a bridge.
When I arrive at a shore, people know I seek conveyance.
The world has been worn round by men like me.
. For further poems of Michael Brown poems and to purchase this book, go to his website