Small Worlds

  
Jaundiced leaves embellish  
the crushed decay of their rotted  
predecessors along the street.    
 
The paper box is empty  
except for the front copy:
Politicians Back-patting War    
   
I escape into a pod of light  
between half-naked trees;  
my face non-injury flushed
from the rush of walk.    
   
It’s unseasonably warm;  
I shed my coat under a rickety construct
of caged limbs.
   
A dropped Popsicle bleeds  
maroon from a wooden spear
lodged in its side.  
   
A plane breaks the silence
dredging momentary history;    
a deafening compression  
forming a resonating memory:      
   
Never on the air force bases I grew;
not once through the darkness;
that runway vibration comforting  emptiness . . .  
did I worry the contents of its belly  
could bespatter my small world.      
   
My father told me once  
War never ended for soldiers;    
I understand now deeply-stained soil  
at my toes, and death of small worlds  
by bullets and napalm he loaded.  
 
I realize his far-away glances  
when silver streaked the sky
and tears his eyes  
were things he wished forgotten . . .
 
Me too.
.    
   
Contrails disperse into silence;
small worlds of alabaster clouds  
reveal a warm sun eventually  
~      
   
   
   
(for my father)    
   
Photograph Vietnam, 1968    
Photographer Unknown