Not Fast Enough

Her cabin was the next one along the road.

No more than fifty or sixty yards down what amounted to 

a rutted cow path.

It was a distance easily traversed-even skipping-in day light

now after ten, full dark even in mid summer with no moon

relying only on the smattering of stars above the canopy of oaks,

Black walnuts and gnarled locusts, to avoid the cow pies and puddles of piss. 

My tread was lightened because she took my hand and let me lead slowly. 

Until she squealed, certain she had stepped on a snake, and bolted like a spooked colt

almost pulling my arm from it’s socket.

We ran the rest of the short way, me dragging behind like a bag of potatoes.

My fantasy of being her lord and protector, dashed by my father’s 

Squat little legs.

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