It is my hill to climb. I will
not turn away. The toe of my shoe
has pivoted enough in the dust. I have
turned back too many times, I have
ground down a hole in the dirt. I try to
go a little further with each attempt.
I gain a yard or a foot or only an inch.
It is the hill I must climb.
I will ask the questions.
I will ask deliberately
and speak quietly.
I’ll look at San Francisco Bay
from the top of my hill and smile
at my own private joke.
No barbaric yawps.
Perhaps just a sigh.
I will not like the answers.
© 1993 Wayne Pitcher
