I count down
Days on the calendar,
Each it's own reminder;
Rows of red X's march
Across April like
You must march each morning.

The possibility hangs
Like a cartoon piano overhead,
Waiting to plummet down
With its true crushing force.
Hear the clang of
Misfired keys,

And there will be no more
Wildflowers pressed,
Sent away in sealed packages
Alongside smiling photos
And handwritten postcards
Entailing sentiments that only offer

Temporary comfort.
There is no security
In the promise of return
When it's told from lips
That have lied this before;
No solace in hands

That deliver folded flags
To crying former wives
Who prayed like I do;
No hope in eyes
That have seen unspeakable,
In headlines shouting nightmares.