sick of himself, of it all,
sits on the slide of a swing set
and listens to the barking
of the dogs and men’s shouts
getting closer.
He looks at the little pinecone
he picked up in the evergreens
back before the cornfield
and the stream where he tried
to make the dogs lose his scent
but only managed to turn his ankle.
He likes the way the pinecone feels
rough in one direction and smooth in the other
and wishes he could keep it, but knows
they’ll take it away, like everything else.
As he waits, he rubs his swollen ankle,
his fingers sticky with sap.
sits on the slide of a swing set
and listens to the barking
of the dogs and men’s shouts
getting closer.
He looks at the little pinecone
he picked up in the evergreens
back before the cornfield
and the stream where he tried
to make the dogs lose his scent
but only managed to turn his ankle.
He likes the way the pinecone feels
rough in one direction and smooth in the other
and wishes he could keep it, but knows
they’ll take it away, like everything else.
As he waits, he rubs his swollen ankle,
his fingers sticky with sap.
Brian Duncan lives in New Jersey with his wife, Margie, and two cats. He worked in a virology laboratory for many years. He enjoys devoting his retirement time to poetry, gardening, and hiking. His poems appear in Whale Road Review, Passengers Journal, Thimble, Sheila-Na-Gig, ONE ART, and Elysium Review.
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