The newspaper pieces, they dance

The newspaper pieces, they dance

As the breeze blows in through the window

The soldier, grinning in the grainy photo

Exists only in the banana-clipped memory

There are no smiles to capture now

Only lips, stretched, painful, across teeth

He can’t even look at one anymore

He passes red plastic pistols in

The dollar store

Emblazoned with Indian and Cowboy

Slogans

He hears shots in the movie theatre

And covers his ears

The sound burrows down into his ribcage

And explodes deep in his chest

He goes to the ceremony

Places a wreath on the altar

And voluntarily closes his eyes

The young boy takes a watery breath

As ‘Taps’ begins

So familiar, this soldier can feel the notes

In his fingertips and his soul

He can hear the laughs of his fellows

Smell the soil, the sweat tucked between brows

See the blood, still fire-truck red in his mind

And the man’s eyes, large and eggshell white

Facing the constellations

His little girl sways on her feet, wide-eyed as she

Watches the old men, her grandpas, weeping,

Blindly like toddlers

Then pulls his hand and whispers in his ear

That she’s glad he’s not dead.