An Old Friend Calls
An old friend calls.
I have nothing to say to him.
Across the street
a field sits in the absence
of blame. Stalks flit porcelain
in the shine of truck light:
thin as a child’s bare legs;
the string of a yo-yo gone slack
between sky and the damp,
done earth.
Back then it was the dignity
of being without
those hard thoughts—
the other boy
just lying there, I didn’t even
know his name, only
what they did to him
while I watched—
his body, a music box
pushed deep into storage,
wound tight, left closed.
The thought of it now
polished like a brand new car.
The one we drove to church in.
The one my grandfather said not to touch
after we got done plucking chickens.
The one my friend wonders about,
asking, how much?
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