The Same Stories by George Franklin

The Same Stories

He wonders sometimes if he repeats himself,
If he’s just an old man who mumbles the same
Stories, like the time he and his son hiked
Down that mountain in the dark, the trail lost,
His father-in-law confused, arguing they should
Turn around and go back up. He remembers
They followed a stream downhill, listening
To the hiss of shallow water over cold, slippery
Stones. At the bottom of the slope, a road
And the parking lot, their car glimmering
Beneath the stars. At the divorce hearing,
His father-in-law refused to shake his hand.
“Not after what you’ve done.” Whatever that
Was, he never figured it out. He tells
About the time his dog was hit by a truck in
Albuquerque, how he had to carry him
Downstairs to urinate in front of the motel
And feed him hamburgers and fries to get him
To eat. Then, he remembers another mountain
When he was in college, one that faced east.
The snow turned to ice when the sun leaned
To the other side, and they had to rappel down.
Someone with experience had brought a rope.
Each time he moved, he packed his books
In cardboard boxes, filled the back of
Moving vans with those boxes, with paintings
Vases, and clothes he hadn’t worn in years.
Maybe it’s no different with the stories.

*

George Franklin is the author of eight poetry collections, including the recent A Man Made of Stories, which was a category finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award 2026, and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing (both Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day.