Struggle XIV

By Andrew R. Duckworth

There is a trail by the old house
That goes from one town
To the next.
It’s paved with memories
And sneaker prints
And images
Of old friends that I never see,
History that hasn’t been
Written down,
But was engraved in my mind
By the pickaxe I used
Searching for ore.
Occasionally, I found gold.
I found it when
We were
Talking philosophy and sipping wine
Until we had no idea
Where we were,
And struggle-bussed our way back
To the house somehow
And got inside.
We started off questioning God’s
Existence and ended up
Raising our hands
In praise as we collapsed our way
Through the carport door.
What a time.
I found it when we walked
The whole length
Of that trail
And you would have thought
That we had won
Gold medals.
We saw parts of the town we had
Never seen before, staring
Off at that new villa
Next to a man-made pond in the
Middle of middle-class
America.
And I pointed to it and said
“Fellas, that’ll be me
Someday.”
I didn’t then realize that owning
A villa is not exactly a
Measure of success.
But try telling it to a boy with
Big dreams that hadn’t seen
Them crumble.
I found it when we made up
Stories about old places
We walked next to,
As if what we were saying was
The Gospel Truth straight
From the mouth of
Jesus Himself.
     I found gold on that trail.
     I’ll take it with me
     Until my last
     Breath.