The Ride

Amarillo sunshine
dripping through my window.
Cascading heavy thuds
of people I have loved
forage up memories
like a Super 8 movie
screeching ‘cross my cerebellum,
my scarred, personal, theatre screen.
Oh, how I have loved them,
those that have completed me.
Those that do not breathe.
Those I can no longer touch.
I learned real young
that life can be hard,
and I was taught to never
ask for much,
so I’ve been workin’
just as hard as I can.
But in between
the Amarillo rays,
on those days
when strength is a commodity,
I come up short and
I find myself aching,
just to hold their hand.
And I feel myself
buckle, white-knuckled,
never really ready
for the ride.