JERRY DURICK
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 it’s 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; there’s 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 aren’t 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 you’re lost
And it’s time for you to sit and wait
For all of this to end.
poetryrepairs #233 17,02:017
JERRY DURICK
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, didn’t slow, didn’t stop, didn’t
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; he’ll never hear
The truck coming up behind him out of the inevitable darkness.
poetryrepairs #233 17,02:017
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