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PoemsToday, as I jogged down the center line of a closed-off, rain-glossed road, lost in a rhythm, the memory of a boy returned: fifteen
or so, barefoot in faded cut-off jeans,
he hoped they’d rip and didn’t slow at all
body one cramp. (But later the secret smile,
yet I can’t for the life of me recall the gun:
... This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchaseSubscribe to TNC (Print and Online editions) Subscribe to TNC (Online only) This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 November 2004, on page 26 Copyright © 2009 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com http://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/mezzo-cammin-1149
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