I’m old enough to mourn more and more old friends who’ve died. I remember the rez buddy who leaned across the powwow picnic table to grab honey for his fry bread then showed me the horsefly and wasp trapped inside the sticky jar. “Man,” he said. “Indians can't have nothing nice.” We laughed. He ate his bread unadorned. I worry that I’ll be the Indian who lives long enough to bury all the Indians he loves. So, Lord, here's my prayer, haphazard and scribbled: Please let me be the Indian who dies somewhere in the middle.
Someone has to stay to tell the story…
Good reading, Sherman. I enjoyed the poem. Don’t worry. We all die in the middle. Just pray you are not the last person alive. 😀