poetryrepairs #233 17,02:017

  : Being Lost
JERRY DURICK : Hit and Run

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Being Lost

The trail disappeared a while back Back in the last hour or two, back When you started to follow that Bird, the one with the yellow tail That flitted up from the ground When you approached and then Off it went, you followed, hoped To see it better, but now itís gone Like the trail and that time spent, Now the trees are unfamiliar faces Crowding, leaning you this way or That, stumbling, almost staggering The sun is too quiet to help with Where or when to go, so you just Keep moving; thereís no up and Down in these woods, no easy way To find where you are to begin to Feel lost, even the word frightens You; sometimes the lost arenít ever Found, they go into the woods alone Like you are, and never come out Leave nothing behind, even search Parties, police and game wardens Friends and family find nothing Keep looking for days, hold press Conferences, post signs, a picture And a reward and finally go quiet The truly lost are never really found They disappear like all these trails Follow birds into their own undoing They wander, stumble, then stagger Like you, now you know youíre lost And itís time for you to sit and wait For all of this to end.

poetryrepairs #233 17,02:017

Hit and Run

He must have been wearing his long day of joyless work, The tiredness he felt always at that hour, walking back to To his trailer; dressed in his dark hooded sweatshirt and Faded work jeans he became invisible, anonymous, a bump In the road; the man who hit him, who killed him, knew He had hit something big, didnít slow, didnít stop, didnít Get out to see what or who he hit, drove right home and hid His truck in the barn and went inside to wait, to wait for cops To come, and they did, they always do. Back roads, like these, Are lined with rumors, lined with hints, evidence of these lives, These deaths; his family and friends, if he had any, will put up Cross where they found him, and some flowers for a while, then Little, then nothing, the plow this winter will take out his cross, By spring his story will haunt the spot, his replacement on the farm Will take a different route for a time, then forget; heíll never hear The truck coming up behind him out of the inevitable darkness.

poetryrepairs #233 17,02:017


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