by John Zedolik

The road rolls up

            gravel-gray

            so must be a hump,

            greater than a whale,

            to which I am harnessed

            and was in ’92—though not sober and

            certainly in a different spot where

            3 a.m. arrived early as usual and

            I with it at least awake and in control

            enough—despite the drink and break-up sorrow—

            to rein in that small second-hand beast, humping

            up (red, invisible in the dark, to the sleepers)

            like now, on calmer seas in clear mind where

            the creature is strong enough to hoist the ancient

            hulk of memory

            and take me down—except for my unshielded senses

            and the same luck I roped on that rolling sea

            so many rides ago