As Mourning Doves Persist

                                   In the back lot is a broad-shouldered truck father to a sleeker figure with fins You have graduated to walking                         (or sailing an electric model with no sound) but the workhorse of your boyhood is patient                         longing parade watchers recall                         the boulevard (though small) of the quarterback, the professor, and the lifeguard Your ears showed then and the cleft in your chin yet it’s the softness in your eyes, headlights, ...

as we walked the nightmare streets, cold thoughts wrapped in wool scarves scratching against the hard words. You step off the edge, nearly falling. I wouldn’t catch you, even if I tried  tonight, nursing wounds. Piercing dog cries paw at the heels of things I should not have said... (excerpted from the longer poem) found in The Shape of Caught Water http://redmountainpress.us/ or directly from the author (covelli@cybermesa.com)