The Rye

Image borrowed from Yahoo

The Rye

Where is that white camper of my youth? The old
Ford that only drove in third? Horses painted
on the side as we circled the back roads
out by Summer Sweet then back home, stoned boys
hanging from the back bumper. When did I begin
to consider Holden Caulfield’s student loan debt?
The rank smell of feet in his unchanged socks?
We drank Cisco, vodka, whatever our already graying
hair could get us across the tracks. We didn’t have
to worry if the music we made was too good, only
if it was real. Now, there is so little room left in the closet
to store my old drum set. Holden didn’t know the cliff’s
edge was protected by a guardrail. We never grew
and yet we’re grown. These knees, blown from
humble living— if I could climb, I’d be over that edge,
falling, falling.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Blast Furnace