One May Mourn And One Does

He found the
Hard to accept and
His room was
Plastered with the
Old Maps he
Assumed at least One
Should Mourn and
When Others
Asked he told them
He lived "There". Enough was
Said and it was more
As counting
Back the years than
Forward; whatever
Had occurred
Had, and what would made
Not the least
Bit of difference

In July here it is hot the families
Gather and the nights are bruised
The same color cut-glass only melded
Back. The times have shown little change
And the fathers light firecrackers
For the little children. Here
It has been about Focus until there
Was nothing More

he has been
in focus for
some Time it
had been that:
enemies were
not Created; only
apparent. Now he
padlocks his doors at
night and saves for his
old age. All
that he had been taught
returns to him during
the evening as he sits
alone, studying maps,
where he cannot weep:
One last similarity.

Here we sat, televisions on and
The young children...attentive
As they would be growing with fear
And without

he lives in a world now of excuses and changed names and little children
who do not Know...which is
the first