On Veteran’s Day

(in a time of war)

I.

I run. getting nowhere,
having faced West
all my life.

each morning starts
out a kitchen window, East,
the orange in the blue

blue from the black
pink, pink, pink &
ruthless red

marking my way behind
then beside, I,
betwixt & between.

II.

the ritual of leaving:
the trial,
the return.

what is the cost of travel:
in oil? in concrete?
in hours of sleep?

(they make the stolen minutes blessed)
in worry & prayer?
(what is prayer but preparation?)

in lives lost on the side of this road,
in those that will be lost (oh, deer.)
in those that survive:

coyote, fox, or red-tailed hawk
(west to east / right to left)
spirit-messengers or coincidental travelers?

III.

returning now, past the armory,
(on Saturdays an auction-house)
with its flags and closed doors,

just before the school
where my wife works
(on Sundays a church)

both with signs, welcoming,
(what is needed more new recruits
or old friends far away?)

I, nearly home, returning,
not gone too long,
of the living, now,

leaves gone or going, wind fierce,
finally bringing the season we wait for
huddled together

awaiting whatever will come
whatever life or love or death letter
soliciting our time or sending us home.