Home from the year-long tour
he walked the edge of Red Creek
into the tunnel of graffiti and tried to read
the names of lovers.
Once, he’d skipped rocks here,
searched for frogs, made paths of stone
in the shallow waters
just to stand on the other side.
He remembered building dams for nothing;
tossing leaves downstream to watch them float;
hiding in the brush when cars drove by—
all those things
that put a boy through the day
when he, and it, have no end.
