Poetry is Good for America
There are deflagration and detonation
which differ in how they shock
That’s pedantic, if not too frantic
and I do not mean to mock
Incendiary times need cooling down
with caution and celebration
To avoid a sad conflagration
have your fireworks out of town
I do not have a future
I only have a past.
The few things I’ve accomplished
Were never meant to last.
The movers come tomorrow.
I wipe January’s to-do list from the white board
We never got around to updating.
The plans we made linger,
The ghosts of the great potential the new year
Laid out before us.
Each tick mark faithfully declining
Until, then, the halt of forward momentum. The
Days that stopped.
Perhaps next year, next duty station
Next month, next KD billet, next school year, next race,
Next rest stop, next tick mark on the list.
The movers come tomorrow.
I’ll call you from the road.
From the square plots,
Of clipped Kentucky rye,
And perfect planters,
Where porch colors fly.
To solace in the weeds,
Growing, flowing, refuse,
In between the cracks,
Of neglect and abuse.
“Gone native” they say,
As if it’s progress undone.
But nothing is ironed here,
Except the will to be one.
