lays down tracks
like he did when he was a
kid, predating The Neighborhood
of Make Believe—
he was already in college
by then, getting A’s and getting
laid, evading the Draft
till the excuses had run out,
a frontline Private
ducking marksmen from
the Viet Cong,
returning with his leg
blown off and his carob skin
scarred by the relentless spray
of shrapnel.
Today, both the medal
he was given and the pin
of Old Glory ride in the caboose,
behind the load of Pennsylvanian
coal that’s terribly out-of-date,
as all of it is, really: the freight
cars disappearing into a distant
tunnel like a rodent’s tail
that darts into drywall,
a baseboard cavity never patched,
puffing smoke as if a gambler
sucking on a cigar smuggled in
from Havana when the Cold
War brought us all to our knees,
shuddering under our desks
though we had told ourselves
fervently that this is just pretend.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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