When he turns fifteen, you'll be fifty-four. When he turns thirty, you'll be sixty-nine. This plain arithmetic amazes more than miracle, the constant difference more than mere recursion of father in son. If you reach eighty, he'll be forty-one! The same sun wheels around again, the dawn drawn out and hammered thin as a copper sheet. When he turns sixty you'll be gone. Compacted mud, annealed by summer heat, two ruts incise this ghost-forsaken plain and keep their track width, never to part or meet.
Copyright © 2012 by Devin Johnston. Used with permission of the author.