At the Wall, Again
by John P. Kristofco



They would be seventy now,
those boys I watched in school
when their sun was young
and they had time they didn't use;
why should they? They would be forever
like dances Friday nights,
the race between the lights,
fearless in the days that flew
free as April when they knew
the meter didn't run.

But it took its quiet count
like all the things that fly
until the jungles and July,
click of twigs along a path,
trip wire at their feet,
the car they couldn't beat,
betrayed by streets that took them where they thought they'd never be.

Fear could have been salvation,
but they didn't know,
and there were always other roads,
other races, other nights,
other places, other fights,
time to be recounted in the fall.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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