The Rye

The Rye

Where is that white camper of my youth? The old

Ford that only drove in third? Horses painted

on the side as we circled the back roads

out by Summer Sweet then back home, stoned boys

hanging from the back bumper. When did I begin

to consider Holden Caulfield’s student loan debt?

The rank smell of feet in his unchanged socks?

We drank Cisco, vodka, whatever our already graying

hair could get us across the tracks. We didn’t have

to worry if the music we made was too good, only

if it was real. Now, there is so little room left in the closet

to store my old drum set. Holden didn’t know the cliff’s edge

was protected by a guardrail. We never grew and yet

we’re grown. These knees, blown from humble living—

if I could climb, I’d be over that edge, falling, falling.