Heroes
raised on rural, farmland fields or
sweaty, city sidewalks or
suburban, single family homes
together danced the night away
with pretty girls
whose pouty red lips grazed their cheekbones.

They were so cool.

Those glorious days
did not,
could not have foretold,
how all things free
are cast like stones
into a tireless ocean,
how all things brave
leave their mark
as footprints in the snow.

They disappear like memory.

Linda Joy Walder