The Rye

image borrowed from bing

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 his site Murder Your Darlings