Two Nicknames

Over by the concrete
wall of a worn-down dam,
as one crosses the first
Yellow Springs' footbridge,
near the end where
one must use stones
to step over water
to the next footbridge,
I engraved something,
long, long ago.

Cut into the rail,
nearly a decade before,
now eroded and so faded,
it's hard to see
two nicknames:

my oldest
and his strangest.

My fingers slide over
the smooth wood plank
until there are dips
and the faint "home"
and the light "iam"
catch the light, just right.
I look upon them now
as a reminder that this
was not just my mind
being ever so clever.
These were mine
long before anyone else
ever heard either one.

I smile, and add a touch
of erosion as I rub
the words I once engraved.

I look up into the trees,
and then continue my hike,
as I grasp one of life's
secret curiosities.