I wish that it were
easier to write poems
rife with scientific names
of flora and fauna,

verses that spoke of
romantic cities, their
breathtaking views.

Adventure that I’d be
hopeless to describe with
such mediocre vocabulary,
vernacular, or verbiage.

Alas,

I can only heave ashtrays
full of charred butts,
empty bottles, the contents
drank until drunk.

I write cinder block passages
in these pages, so that they
might outweigh my thoughtless,
yet most sincere,
insides.

I can only tell you
what I know, what I knew
or wish I did,

so that I might clear
the breech of fired
ordinance,
chambering the next
round and scanning
for
a target.


*

-JBClaywell

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