Seniors on the Move
Worry lines divide the sky.
Lightning could cancel our hike,
even cancel us. Our little group
shelters in a lean-to built
by Boy Scouts after school
almost half a century ago.
The smell of rot doesn’t stop you
from crowding a sleeping bag
with your lover, whose gestures
suggest millstones grinding wheat.
I look away, into the distance
pouring over hazy peaks.
The storm breaks with a roar of rain
alloyed with antimony and zinc.
Trees toss their mane and boulders
open their pores. A hawk circles
with royal disregard for the wind.
I can’t watch your sleeping bag writhe
so with the rest of our group
I stare at collapsing horizons
until my eyes hurt. The shame
of such overstated weather
reminds me that childhood guilt
encapsulates to tease old age.
Our clutch of hikers suffers
not only from age but apologies
for age, our compromised sight
and sorry muscles rebuking us,
and you and your lover chuckling
like bullfrogs mating in puddles.
About the Author
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.