A flame in my throat, so hot
it scalds like cocoa,
my breath a yelp,
an angry stitch in my side,
feet slapping the sidewalk,
saddle shoes too tight,
shorts too taut,
my older brother so far ahead,
cantering like a pony,
all slim and horsehair sleek,
John Wayne tall but spare in the chest,
legs and body chestnut,
racing to the roar of the sun.

A flash at the corner,
and he’s gone.

I falter,
hunch over,
throb for air,
sob in,
gasp out,
legs on fire,
totter home,
fall onto the porch.

He hands me an ice cream sundae,
a dollop of extra fudge on top.
Bare arms barely touching,
we let the coolness in, the sweat dry.
A jump, and he bounds away,
disappears behind the house.

Fingers sticky and cold,
I leave my bowl,
grasp at his shadow,
follow him at a run.

I.

I met Clint Eastwood in the hills today,
that familiar grin, slouch, that laconic stance.
Faithful to the etiquette of the trail, he rolled out
a howdy, I repeated him, reversed passage
to see if the star had truly passed me by. Was the man
long-limbed enough, spare enough? Does Clint
put on khaki shorts like those, that bland kind
of tee, does he live nearby, like to hike,
to see bees swarm & butterflies on the lam?
The thought bore with me, echoed
in the silence of my solo trek to the height
of the ridge, the silence of my break, the slog
back to an empty fridge, darkened house.

II

I met a deer on my hike today, a buck, stubby
antlers scraping by on a smattering of velvet.
I stilled, withheld my pulsing heart, breath.
The creature did not seem to touch the ground,
but rode the air like a hawk or a sprite.
A slight gasp, or perhaps the faded flame
of my old red shorts, and he startled, crashed
down a gully, dashed up a ravine, withdrew.
He knew the route, was unafraid of it, refused
to please me by pulling in his wings.
Refused to stay. The thought pursued me
while I trudged on, my solitary ramble
caught in the brambles of his flight.