Autumn

Autumn

He waits in the gray quiet of dawn,
On a road bordered by green corn fields,
The headlights of a yellow bus approach.
He sinks low in the seat to avoid the stares.

California lingered on his mind like a stream,
Eight-lane highways crammed with cars,
The wild pacific crashing against the seacoast,
The golden color of summer in the hills.

Afternoon and the bus stopped by the roadway,
He stalks an empty path through the fields,
Companioned with an angry wind,
This strange wonder of not belonging.

He carries a pellet gun into the woods,
Aiming to kill and thinking himself alone,
But the barrel jams, breaking the coil,
An old crow taunts him from the fence.

He thought of the sharp templed preacher;
Hair slicked back and mouth contorted,
Hysterical voice on a rampage,
Chasing through the long Sunday morning.

Twilight and he emerges on the gridiron,
The line coach whistles the scrimmage,
He takes the ball and crashing forward,
Falling to the touch of cool green grass.

Regaining his feet, he comes back,
Pushing and shoving against the red jerseys;
Fighting back with desperate energy,
Until the greater number swallows him.

That night he wakes from a long dream,
His body shivers in the darkness;
He heard an owl weeping in the woods;
He stood up and looked out the window.

One by one the stars fade in the blue night.

Created by Bill Keys
billgkeys@yahoo.com
facebook.com/bill.keys