Summer of 94

Time seems
to rise and fall
like the tall-August
grassy memories of man's youth

I was 20. Father died
just months before
and I always had a beer in my hand.

And there I am
by the water of Sand Creek
in the heat, glistening with confusion.

lean. more than mean.
a killer if I had to be.
I'm not proud, but ashamed
of the latter. But it was what it was.

And yet my tribal heritage
tugged at my hair
made me listen to the earth

in between madness

A lifetime later
pictures are all that's left
of a foolish young man, wondering who he was.