The bugle sounds.
A carousel of star minded young
Offer songs to heroes
Squealing on safe, pretend, wooden horses
Circling smiles in vocal oneness.
Until my cloud
Burst.

 For I seemed to see with final eyes
A relaxed thumb,
A cold communion of index skin
And the trigger it courted.

I sweat to hold back time
But space lied
And the anger of steel speed,
Coughed
Fleeting a pungent, anonymous greeting,
A surprise
For my waiting wall
 Crumbling.

I felt the rush of heat
Sear and scar in entry
Issuing its verdict
Spiraling guilty
With a gaveling crack,
Chiseling alive bone dead
Churning frantic for an exit
Dancing my life away.

Convulsing
With every frenzied query
Son of America
Stone pale
On a still pond of red
Beneath the confetti blue
Until I cried no more.

No vigil near to thank a hero’s name.
All face home, sipping dreams of an armistice
Choking on a safe, safe song.
 When will the bugle breach,
Beckoning howls and peals for life and peace
And passing over hails to the chief.

Copyright 2006 Ward Stothers