Katrina Kaye

Curled in brown wicker,
I bask in the stories of dead men.

Sun drenched cowboys who have
long since stepped foot on a farm;
no longer able to ride a horse.

Their eyes reveal they have
put up with California for too long.

And now, as each of their ghosts lean
into the basket and poke at my red face,
they embed legends on childish palms:

say it is for luck,
say it is one of their rituals.

They don’t realize the calluses they create,
never suspect such power in stirring
the clouded skies of a child.