A ten-foot length of drainage pipe
left on that field like a cheap
Stonehenge.
I never thought of it much those days
but, older now, I like to sit
inside.
The past becomes two exits then
where it’s mid-June
and always is
and I can stay for a moon minute
with the sunset smell
of beer.
It’s said you can’t return again
to that endless
letting out.
I say if I can step just on
the slice of sun across
this tunnel
it almost seems they’ll call me
back onto the field
and its brightness.
But every time I travel through
the ten feet
I am here.
Jeff Latosik’s most recent poetry collection is Safely Home Pacific Western.
