We always stopped for bait or soda pop
by the bridge across the Brazos River -
drought so bad the stream was just a sliver
of it's normal self. Through a narrow gap
on the steep, brushy bank, we three would drop
into the bed, so dry that long, hot summer
the cracks seemed bottomless. Do I remember
asking Dad how far they went, or that
his reply was they go straight down to hell?
It's been more years than I would like to tell
and I'm not sure I knew what hell was then.
My Dad was such a joker. Mother cringed
whenever he would scare us with a ghost
story - he loved to get her angry most.

II

Long drives, land flat and open, country road
with little traffic disappears ahead:
mirage reflecting only sky. The dread
of falling off the edge. A shallow fold
where water flowed - it rained here once, I'm told.
I can't remember rain. The grass instead
of waving in the wind stands stiff and dead.
This glaring desert: all I'll ever know?

Long drives, like droughts, that only seem to go
forever, end; and welcoming grandparents,
trees and horses, fishing holes, cow pies,
muskedines, all tell us that summer's slow,
like syrup: ribbon-cane. It doesn't care
about the heat. Take a nap. You won't die.