Two stories high, a crumbling house. One gray caliber above a shack.
Curtains through half-boarded windows, medals boxed
In ivory yellow, all those dust years.
A small town evening, quiet as country.
There outside,
A worn man in a sweatshirt, one of those 2 for $10 deals
Working, a meticulous workhorse, trowel gripped, detailed as if
Life depended on him. His lawn, impeccably ironed. A plastic
Potted plant, just one, full red petunia moons.
The staked flag, covering ears bowing to winds from east canons.
Both hands remember seeping blackness
Aound his paint peeled post, the silence of burnt light,
Eyes from the ground
Off and abandoned for years.
Just something, the whole memory, really.
Through dusk's window, I saw, one million grass blades marching
To each exactly, his wood ruler and sergeant's razor.
His heart-breaking pride.
How stunning, I breathed in slowly.
To see it.
Up close on a fifteen mile an hour drive on Route 60.
Cost of life, and
America, living within her means.
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