Late into the Long Summer Evening

after the mosquitoes

began to tire

and babies no longer cried,

 

You would sit in the heat

and tell me stories

of fishing on the White River

and the bears that lived there.

 

But the smoke

from your hand-rolled cigarettes

smoked down

close to your fingers

had nearly faded

from my memory

before I realized,

 

Your bears were

merely wild pigs

grown into monsters

for my entertainment.