by Bill Ratner
Down I-35 a trunk full of pirated sweet corn,fog of ghosts skin to skin with farm dogs, cows, my fear of fishing, car trips cloaked in stands of birch. Des Moines River flows out of Saylorville Lake. Been so long since I had a family. I drive by to see the place. At the curb in front of the house a stranger walks past. Hi, Billy. Like I’d never left.
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