An Ache


hearing geese on a winter day,

pierces my core,


I yearn for the past,

free to run with my grandfather,

across the plains,

and through the canyons,

to the river,

where the geese roost,

by the thousands.







the radio played country music,

endless as the hills through which we drove,

in the middle of the emptiness,

she told me she loved me,


in all that space,

I had nowhere to run.




the choice


the fight embarrassing,

but the bar dark,

and the beer cold,

it was my kind of place,

but time was frozen,

not in a good way,

the choice made,

between person,

or place,

I wondered if she really was gone,

and if I ever again would see her face.



Douglas Polk