gathering their rifles to shoot
a dead bird.
we got him right here, son.
the boy you left behind?
he’s been dead four years
and you’re only finding out now.
you’d better feel ashamed of yourselves.
they gathered out in the muddy rains
close to victories and fever spells
peeling off their shells of comfort
slowly but surely
hour by hour.
nevada looks nice
but in the winter it’s pretty bleak
no women to see, aside from your sister.
have to head down the road.
falling from a height,
you see yourself in a negative after-image
it’s good to be alive.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry