Haiku: August 2010
Steamy summer night
Mason City, Iowa
The crickets still sing
You spoke to me across the table
looking much too thin, the dream
always wakes me, you three years gone
to the day and it’s a long way to go
any road you take. It seemed as if
your full tank would last forever, but
when it drops below half, you almost
can see the red needle dropping to E.
We’re in a motel in Mason City, Iowa.
You were 22 in ’58 and soon to marry,
same age as Buddy Holly when the plane
crashed into that frozen February field,
the same thin face and black glasses
in photographs from before I was born.
Now it’s hottest August, and the crickets
sing late-summer songs in grass browning to fall.