Close the windows, let dust from the road
make its way into the car, coat the floor mats,
dashboard, seats and steering wheel in a light
almost wheat-like flour unable to rise in the heat.

Filter each breath with a t-shirt stretched
to bandit level and hold it there
with your own two hands
until the road ends.

Hike a mile through a thicket of jack pine,
the wind-worn kin of wildfires,
and try not to catch the line from the fishing rod
on one of its million mangled branches.

Curse yourself and that long-sleeve shirt
you left behind when the first swarm comes calling
to claim your flesh, to spite your one free hand
slapping away at your face and neck.

Forgive Dad. He remembers this as being
the only way to Mosquito Creek,
where trout as long as forearms feed
along its still and shade-free shallows,

and where he’ll wait as if in prayer,
for however long it takes, for that rare
benevolent one to soon strike mighty
at his bait.

Joe Oswald is retired from a career in government affairs and political organizing. He holds degrees from UW-Madison and Georgetown University. Joe’s poetry and short memoirs have appeared in North Coast Voices, Barstow & Grand, Hippocampus, among others. He lives with his wife and their tabby, Kika, in Madison, Wisconsin