Jim clutches his phone in his pocket,
in place of the hand he had grown used
to holding. From where laughter came
was now just silence. Awaiting a call
that was unlikely to come. It had taken

an attack to sever the nation he had
come to call as home. And now dug
in the rubble and salt marsh, he would
sell freedom for her. Words mean nothing
when they are heard by no one.

Jim has disappeared out of town again,
rambling through woods to occupy
his time. He searches the gutter for
cigarette ends and lighter fluid.
He spreads her out in a five-minute

dream of soft touch and hard kisses,
of come-down and sunrise under the
hem of her red dress. It is Jim's turn
to wait around. It is Jim's fault
he even has to be there at all.