Knee deep in the Watauga's <br />rock leaping whitewater, <br />my brother loses his balance, <br />his life if our father <br />doesn't flail downstream swimming <br />the air, running the river, <br />tripping the stones to collar <br />his son gasping and coughing <br />onto a sandbar as he <br />confirms with tentative fingers <br />his empty back pocket. <br /> <br /> <br />We pace back and forth on the shoreline <br />down to the bridge, the other <br />bank before the sun finally <br />falls blurring the world into darkness, <br />my father not saying, don't worry, <br />a life is priceless, not saying <br />something like that, not tousling <br />my brother's hair and smiling. <br /> <br /> <br />For this is October. My father <br />believes he'll be fired soon, <br />will face winter's cold coming <br />without thirty-four washed-away dollars.<br /><br />Ron Rash<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-price/
