Flies on the screen late in the fall, worn out and slow, less rumble than show, in shiny old armor. The grapes gone, the vineyard leaves yellowing, the weeds spent and dry. Not a drop of rain. Walnuts drying in big wooden boxes leaning against the shed. In front of the house, at the side of the road, a boy steps out of a big yellow bus. Thoughtfully, absently, presently, he inhales the dust. Fifty years later, he exhales. The narrow door opens. He climbs back in, thinking, Then, there were more of us. Some have gone home, I trust.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces