a telephone pole hums in morse code
as i cut through the lumber yard
i pass a street lamp just before
it stamps itself out with a hiss
among canvas tents pulled leather taut
and nestled in the wet night green grove
i hear the reverent silhouettes murmur
and see the flickering outlines of their somber ceremony
as i approach them i hear footsteps behind me
one of them plodding quietly back to his flock
his head down and thumbs under his suspenders
he doesn't see me
i think of the gettysburg ghost from a week before
fifty yards from a bar my high beams
caught him on the shoulder of the road
his slouching shirt and chalky beard shuttered
as he leaned with a blind threat towards me
and as i walk home now towards broken concrete
and college students on sweaty porches
through the soldiers' altar
in the steam of ten o'clock in almost july
i only let my self sneak glances
at their solemn faces that are holy and untouchable
and when i get far enough that i can't look at them with out turning
i hear small peaks of joy in violin tuning sounds
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment