he watches the rain like
it's alive
but he feels less alive himself
behind him
the house turns dark
its last light going off
don't turn back
don't look back
keep going ahead
and maybe another house
and another wife
will open up before you
or maybe there'll be another
war coming
and the nation will need
your service
again
this time the fear shall be
less intense
The first time
someone points
a gun at you
you're terrified
the second time's the same
third
forth
and so on
but eventually there comes
a time when you
run out of people
to point guns at you
fifth
twelfth
forty-third
and none of them make you
feel like her eyes
watching from the window
behind the curtains
and no pulling of the trigger
and no bang
is like her voice screaming
at the kid to go away, to not look
"A stranger! That's what the
man outside is. And I'm calling
the police if he keeps staring like that.
DON'T!
you dare look at him. Go to
your room. Now."
What's a man when all
the wars are over?
A squirt gun against the sun.
His good hand, the one with
whole and working fingers
reached into an inner pocket
of his uniform, found
nothing.
He walked on
And it rained on
And there were no more wars