Never laid a snare for nothin.
Never caught a bullfrog. Broke
my slingshot wishbone, wishin.
Never had a smoke.
Never clipped a baseball card
to thutter in the spokes.
My fist clenched an ink pen
and I learned what to think when
and never swore no Honest Injun,
and never spat, and never struck.
Where you gone, Tom?
Where you at, Huck?

I call myself a man today
though I’ve never been a boy
and dug for treasure in the woods
or lost myself in play
feared dead for seven days
until I showed up by my grave
and made a sniffling town rejoice.
I could have been a pirate, Mama,
at least a Robin Hood,
but I was always up to something
employable and good,
and now I’m down here in this cave,
crying, crying to be saved
though I reckon I am stuck:
Where you gone, Tom?
Where you at, Huck?

Photograph © May