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End of the Game

Text of Poem

Two little boys dusty with pollen
would need clean faces to come
to the supper table. In the
cornfield we hid from each other,
racing up and down the rows like
rabbits, you always gave yourself
away with a snort of laughter.

It is your turn to hide while
I cover my eyes. I hear the rustle
and murmur of leaves drying in
the warm October sun. But now you
are quiet and I cannot find you.
Come out, brother, come out,
I am afraid. Soon it will be dark
and mother will scold us if
we are late for supper.

First Line
Two little boys dusty with pollen
Original Pub Location
Original Publication Date
Original Citation
Lake Superior Review 8 (Summer 1977) 4.
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For my brother Robert Russel Hearst