a childhood friend.
On summer nights
we used to fight bad guys with sticks
until cicadas' screams gave way
to the nighttime fiddling of crickets.
His corpse was bent and torn;
The sweat and dirt from my hand
en route to other things - quarters and car keys -
had tinged it yellow.
When I hear cicadas
crying in the hot night like angry children,
I wonder if I'll see him again,
if he'll still be short and spry or
if time will have worn him
like the monochromatic carcass
of our youth.
