Black Friday on the Rocket Farm


Hank studied on the clearly etched hieroglyph
of three crooked, upright crosses
carved into the cabin's well-worn granite cornerstone.
Years of his reflective fingers touching, rubbing it
had pushed stained patinas of surrendered sweat,
sometimes blood, into its skin.
Just now, it reflects this evening's scarlet setting sun,
unmoving purple shadow of himself, seated in the dust;
his memories chiseling across this touchstone's tattooed face.
Today he fears he's lost the dream.
Unsure whether to respect anything;
the daily tick, earthly life, a hoped for holy "waking up",
simple laughter, morning after screams...
he could only drag a booted heel into the dirt
to gouge a sacred, scribbled note of nothing
to God.

Copyright (c) 2008 Gary Brown