The Progress of a Myth
The first time,
he tried to stop it.
He pressed his suffering shoulder
against the rough stone
and dug his heels deep.
You can still see the traces
like wheel ruts left
by forgotten chariots.
The next million times
he raced it
to the valley floor thinking
he might catch it,
might put an end to things.
The footprints trace
both sides of the path.
He could never settle on one.
Now, he just watches it.
He judges the sound,
the quality of the rumble,
praying for erosion.
Then he raises his tired bones
and starts his slow walk
to the foot of the hill.
There’s no reason not to.
Mark J. Mitchell has been a working poet for forty years. His latest full length collection is Roshi: San Francisco published by Norfolk Press. He lives with his wife, the activist, Joan Juster. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/. A primitive web site now exists: https://mark-j-mitchell.square.site/. He sometimes tweets @MarkJMitchell_Writer.
Other Works
RUN, RABBIT, RUN
by J.B. Polk
... He detests their white bodies in flapping shorts and Hawaiian shirts ...
Striped Angelfish
by Ben Umayam
... We had just arrived on the beach ...