Cliff
by Danell Jones


her voice needled him
as he climbed

the weight of the pack drifted first east then west
he could smell the inky chaparral
his palms still stung

below she'd muttered something patronizing as he tugged at the loose shoulder strap

stop mothering me, he'd snapped silently

it's all about something else anyway:
living too long in one place without enough money
being afraid and tired

he'd managed to keep the pack together
with a strip of tee shirt and a shoelace
but it cut into his shoulder & was starting to take skin

at the peak
he gazed into the broad brown prairie before him
thought of Indians and settlers
trains and telegraphs
and how we never really know
how long things will hold together






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