Each step dents beige earth.
I’m facing mountains,
Chicoma Peak fifteen miles away and a mile above.
I tuck some discarded cans into my backpack,
but keep finding clusters of them.
I’ll go to the top of this hill, then start back…
From here I see
many more breaths to reach the real top…
which still has a tilt, shallow as a senator’s answer,
toward a summit…
a ruse; the dip beyond is a rise
downgraded by its crescendo into a hillside.
If I keep taking the highest line,
where will I end up?
About the Poet
Gerald Friedman grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches physics and math in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He has published poems in various magazines, recently Better Than Starbucks, As It Ought To Be, Rat’s Ass Review, and Last Stanza. You can read more of his work here.