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by Ward Stothers

The bugle sounds.
A carousel of star minded young
Swallowing the heroes' song
Squealing on safe, pretend, wooden horses
Circling smiles in vocal oneness.
Until my cloud
Burst.

 For I seemed to see with final eyes
A relaxed thumb,
A cold communion of index skin
And the trigger it courted.

I sweat to hold back time
But space lied
And the anger of steel speed,
Coughed
Fleeting a pungent, anonymous greeting,
A surprise
For my waiting wall
 Crumbling.

I felt the rush of heat
Sear and scar in entry
Issuing its verdict
Spiraling guilty
With a gaveling crack,
Chiseling alive bone dead
Churning frantic for an exit
Dancing my life away.

Convulsing
With every frenzied query
Son of America
Stone pale
On a still pond of red
Beneath the confetti blue
Until I cried no more.

No vigil near to thank a hero’s name.
All face home, sipping dreams of an armistice
Choking on a safe, safe song.
 When will the bugle breach,
Beckoning howls and peals for life and peace
And passing over hails to the chief.

 

"Hail to the chief" is the march played for the American president, every time he appears to address the American public.

 

 

Copyright 2006 rev2008 Ward Stothers