And realize as husband and father he was only his PTSD
To his family, a repressed Vietnam, poor but typical guy;
Or the bobcat the stunned driver put in his trunk
That woke to pounce when he opened it, or that kid he hit
On the highway, and had to live for both. The smallest
Chafe brings a twitch. I dance on the sticks of Gene Krupa,
My uncle's artillery, to complain of the slights I received
At the hands of angelic grace, the marionette I couldn't be in life.
Thus memory conflicts with the history already behind us.
The signs on the ground are only of the present, though they're
Soft enough to be tombs if you see them. I see every flower
As hers somehow, but spring's rainbow ranunculus are only
What you let them become, and for whom. There is always
Another voice than your own. The hayrides are
Enough to keep families from hating each other today
Though it is only love on every face, such a strange way
To show it, large enough to make one flinch.
