I'm right, they're wrong.
They just won't get along.
Of course that's why we fight.






                     (Effing morons anyway...)

Riding the train to Mall of America near Minneapolis. Fort Snelling National Cemetery lies East of the tracks. Outside the windows pass these gravestones. Stark marble markers in the place of heros. Rigid rank and file, monuments on parade in mimic  memory of the command to "Attention!"  

And there are thousands. Row after row, column upon column, they march into the distance

Until finally, I closed my eyes and listened to the rumble of the  train, wheels upon tracks, and to the conversion of a young family seated behind me as they talked about all the fun they will have at the mall. The Mall of America -- found out past the tombstones, beyond the graves of the fallen brave.

Stale airs stalled in a fetid grasp;
Wilting both body and soul.

Seems for years wishing on sargasso seas for even yet the barest breeze.

Without direction. The birds, the gulls, the albatross have left me to my fate.

Sweating life which I canpppp ill afford,
I pace this motionless deck.

Recalling, wishing the storms of youth. Then, at least, there was movement

In fevered dreams, I faced down gales.
On a dying ship I approached that shore.

The sun peels, cooking flesh, but here
not even scavengers deem to come.

There are times when I have to stop
on the side of the road and wonder,
how did I end up in this state? But then I remember some turn I made about a hundred miles back, and who knows why. Then I turn the key and wish I'd brought a map.

Such amazing strength,
To be so weak and
Yet survive.

Father, I hope this can will do; it’s Folgers.
You loved your coffee black, mud strong.
I remember how to make it,
Water in the ***.
Float the grounds.
Boil ’til they sink.
Campfire style, you called it.
That last cup, pour careful,
so as not to get the grit. I remember
how it went.

But Father, once I do this
once we commit your ashes to the sea;
once I pour this can of dust into the river,
what then?

What should I do
with this old empty coffee can?

The beauty of Spring gave rise to
Summer, who’s warmth and gentle days
brought us to....

No.
…how did it go?

Halcyon days of May blossom into
Summer daze, lazing into bounteous Fall.
Curling Autumn leaves shiver
on crisp....

Agh!
Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Spring sprung flowers and sun and rain.
And then, fledged,
bounded into Summer’s
heat, picnics, fun, and games.
Summer drifting, wanders into Fall.
Best known for harvest, yellow buses, colored leaves, and all.
Then Winter took
that which we knew, and covered it in silence quilting snow
and said,”Wait till Spring.”

Who knows.
Could be, that's the way it went?

But, likely, more like this:

The seasons passed.
Passed with no regard at all.
Until that day we placed a marble marker in chilling rain;
and talked about Springs, and Summers, and the Winters of life,
and how we hide the pain,
and how we’ll never be the same,
and we never are the same.