The Hardrock Kid

Nothing could be more wonderful for a hobo than to
cross over the Jordan while sleeping in a park.
- Steamtrain Maury

In a sketch he’d fall right in
with the lines of the tree he lies against.
Flicking off mosquitoes, naming each one
for a town with a face he’d recognize.

Some young softball kid
lays into a fat one,
sends it skyward. Hardrock follows
until eyes close and night sounds
hum his body home. Half a century
and he knows the trains are faster,
days longer when the body slows. Still
small secrets get him by, like ways
the blood knows to keep moving.

Squeezes shut his eyes so tight
a hundred headlights prick the black
and he picks one, imagines
a rumbling familiar as breath.
Times his jump but doesn’t
jump. This time, Sunday,
no reason to move. He’s gone
over and over his brain, every fold
in the map of his country.
He feels the red bandana in his pocket
balled up, clenched
like a fist or a heart.

Under the last moon he remembers
there are secrets he keeps
to himself. That the lazy fly ball
has finally fallen and gone home
is one.

The Hardrock Kid
by David Clewell