the devil’s washbasin,
a formation of rocks,
south of my hometown,
a place demons dance,
if only in the mind,
a goal at the end of a long sweaty hike from town,
known to the ancients who once dwelt here,
a roofless cave,
where the night’s stars viewed and pondered,
sheltered from the ever present wind,
sacred in its solitude,
the center of the universe,
or that least home to the restless souls of this canyon maze,
south of the north branch of the river Platte.
Douglas Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys, two dogs and four cats. Polk has had over 400 poems published in over 80 publications within the last three years.