maybe summer
maybe the
summer needs
to write
its own story
its own
poems
across my
eyelids and
over my
memory
burnt orange
skies on
days hot
as the
wind through
a hangman’s
noose
as my
red hot
pokers bloom
like radiant
missiles in
my garden
of love
today I
have quiet
and coffee
thought and
inspiration
but no
poem
Military town
the air
smells of
diesel and
coal dust
just off
the highway
and even
at rush hour
this town
feels empty
as I
cross the
road looking
for a meal
and anyplace
less lonely
on a military
weekend
away from home
some days
I hate
this uniform
it reminds me
of how
far away
my family
and I
are from
who I
used to
be back
before the
war stole
my optimism
my energy
my faith
most of
my kindness
all of myself
and left me
full of
nightmares
and the smell
of blood I
still can’t
wash off
left me
here or
home or
anywhere
alone or
in formation
standing like
a ghost in
service dress
blues.
JUNE
Its an
early
Beatles song
kind of
morning
suns out
windows down
and driving
so fast the
shadows on
the street
are a
puppet show
a Chinese opera
or Ferris wheel
a classic novel
about a man
and a whale
and I just
might be one
or the other
because today
I am anything
and everything
screeching under
these wheels.
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