fire hall

i.

the man and dog are silhouettes
black ghosts against cobalt
trekking the high thin line
of a reservoir horizon
boundary water between ceded ground
and inverted native soil

it’s an invented sky
free of crow and cloud
small trees
are instilled with imported birdsong

the man carries a walking stick
the dog is unleashed
stony banks
bleed afterbirth of snow
flushing into the creek below

power line derricks sprout
like giant weeds
like neo-totems that carry dominion
in this age of loss

the old man’s silhouette throws
a frail shadow
from his vantage he sees
an invisible distant place
like the moment before lightning flashes
like white-collar thievery
like a promise

the dog sniffs and runs and jumps
carefree and agile

what was once hunted
no longer cowers

ii.

the traffic hums on chiseled ground
scuffing through scattered a-frames and ranch homes
the sun was always restless
the sacred dna: out-numbered

drenched in the color of our willingness
tainting decay with flowers
memory: a sacrificed intelligence

iii.

the silhouette floats
disguised as a human being
he steadies along with his veteran’s limp
and his walking stick
the dog is as playful as the daylight allows

approaching the path below along the creek
the old man whistles a song with
a stolen melody
then pulls a small coin from his pocket

drowns lincoln like a stray seed
in an oily mud puddle
a hope that will never germinate

Dan Sicoli lives between two Great Lakes in New York State where he co-edits Slipstream. He will have a new poetry collection out from Ethel Press in 2026. Recently he’s had poems included in Abandoned Mine, BlazeVOX, Evening Street Review, Hellbender, Hobo Camp Review, Home Planet News, Loch Raven Review, Ranger, Rye Whiskey Review, and San Pedro River Review, among numerous others. On weekends he beats on an old Gibson in a local garage rock band. <www.pw.org/directory/writers/dan_sicoli>