Friday, January 1, 2010

670. BROKEN ON THE RACK OF TIME

BROKEN ON THE
RACK OF TIME

I remember well the the white fence
which used to stretch from yard to yard.
Roger to Richard to Henry and Leonard
and back. Like a frontier line of the suburban
slime - tract house past tract house, auto and
driveway, the gate drew the lawn to a close.
Nothing substantial, mind you - a make-believe
kingdom in the veteran's mind. These 1948 soldiers,
now returned fattened and ready, from their recent war,
having learned both their sex and their lines, all
following orders, all sleeping still with their kill,
sat back for their repast - a fated, broad meal -
a life of new richness, this freshly built home,
this lawn, this yard, that white-fence, delineating
their new country, hard. It ran from measly hillock
to humble hill, that swell in the lawn, that
musical trill - a bird's trait, some nature
yet existent. Even then, this world
was a dying place, broken
on the rack of time.

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