Tracking

Tracking

I found it in the path—

her plastic comb

the large, curled handle

made to ride up

out of a back pocket

her back pocket

she would notice

it was missing

as soon as they arrived

at the falls

when she reached back

after the hike after the

wind

ready to straighten

her long, brown hair

and felt only tight denim

What men are best at

Uncle Benny told me once

is always being

one quarter-mile behind

the woman

but I was only twelve

and so, nearly

thirty minutes late

catching up to the girls—

stretched out around

and above the falls

on boulders, sunbathing

suntan lotion

wafting into the tight

canyon walls

one echoing boom box the roar of

white water spilling into the

stream

the mist hovering

and she was face-down

on a flat slab

of granite

a cold Tab popped open

beside a brown arm

and I waited

the comb in my fingers

lifting it to my nose—

herbal conditioner

perfume

and Jenny

the sun stretched up

the walls until

the girls lay

completely in shadow

and then one by one gathered

their magazines and nail polish

novels and empty

pop-cans

towels and bottles

of lotion

she removed her sun-glasses

pulled on her jeans

and shouldered her day pack

I watched them from

the bush

walk right past me

Keep looking for it she

said to a friend

it'll be on the trail

somewhere

and fifteen minutes later

I rose from hiding

wondering what I might

have done

or said

if I were a bit older

Here Jenny—I was

just out walking

and found your comb

I thought… I

thought..

I thought I'd better pick up

the trail again

now nearly

a quarter-mile cold