Tracing Dinosaur Tracks
After tracing dinosaur tracks
that snuff out at the tide line
I awaken to snow showers
falling through certain organs
I only use when asleep.
Today will go like this: slick
back roads, coffee shop coffee
with a cranberry muffin crumbling,
a bag of groceries, a visit
to the bank with the green logo,
an afternoon reading paperbacks
in propane heat, a distance
unfolding like a loveless letter,
more snow showers weeping down
through the fey embrace of pines.
Most of my friends died years ago,
faces adrift in pearly vapors.
On the phone with the few survivors
I find my voice too numb to express
the texture of localized snowfall.
Such erasure troubles without
surprising me. Think of dusty
storefronts, rooms without views.
I’ve inhabited such places longer
than most people want to live.
Maybe the tracks I followed
were my own from a far era.
Maybe I should have lingered
at the tideline where this world
and that one interact with joy
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.