Huck at the altar of drainage culverts
twice a day
he leans into concrete tunnels that run beneath
driveways, trusting in what waits amid wet leaves, grass
clippings, the effluent of suburbia – he is a true believer, a witness
who recalls a raddled tabby within one gutter’s
curve – temptation dwelling in the swirl
and shadows
the cat is long gone
but still our walks include vigils at each grated altar
our own Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage
of fidelity, a leaning in, nose-to-ground petition
to see if today will be the day
of revelation
at leash-end
I watch his loyal seeking, his peering into circles
of dark and empty, and long for his faith
of returning again and again
Lucinda Trew
Lucinda Trew is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and recipient of Boulevard Magazine’s 2023 Poetry Contest for Emerging Poets. Her work has been published in the North Carolina Literary Review, Susurrus Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, storySouth, and elsewhere. She lives and writes in the piney, red clay piedmont of North Carolina with her jazz musician husband, two dogs, two cats, and far too many books to count. Her collection, What Falls to Ground, is forthcoming from Charlotte Lit Press.
