Michael Kiriluk / Sonora, CA 

(Wadsworth)
 

    It’s off the interstate
as all such towns must be,
a lonely destination
for lonely people trying to hide
from themselves or others.
The town, as quiet and slow
as the river that defines
its southern boundary.

    The stream passes sluggishly
beneath a black train
trestle, the rivets in its metal
beams sustain the weight
of years, the weight of midnight passage.

    Two boys sit
along the river’s shaded bank,
holding pointless
fishing poles on a pointless afternoon,
hoping that the river might hold
a last lingering fish
in its clouded water.

    Above the riverbank, beyond
the canopy of cottonwoods, the desert
stretches out in muted tones,
like the mottled skin
of a rattlesnake, like the distance
in an unanswered question.

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