Coming Home
He came home in fatigues
a late night in March
chill, crisp windless.
His heavy shined shoes pairingly
stole the chipped, warped
creaking boards of
the basement stairs.
Turning the corner,
stepping into the living room
shiny black leather
steel tipped boots dripped
clinging snow onto the worn
blue carpet, shoes just
recently stained of
dust and mud.
That same sweet smile
proclaimed, "I'm home!"
grinning ear to ear
expsing frosted red dimples
high on each cheek.
We got a case that night
Molsons.
Before he want to war,
he always drank Molsons,
he drank them slow, steady.
Amber fluid this night waved
violently into this throat
succeding and receding
behind brown glass.
After those first few gulps
I was shocked when he
pulled his hat from his brow.
Exposing mans eyes, war's eyes
previously shadowed by his
stately brim.
Eyes begging to be seduced by
the bubbly beverage.
Friends, drink, this momment
was the opposite of coarse winds,
bright bombs, harsh suns,
endless convoys and
the stench of rotting urban death.
I was witnessing a singular sample
of soldier's spirit splitting, and
splintering apart.
Crumbling like the ancient
secrets buried in the dessert.
Essence exshaused appearing
as exposed steel wire
in deteorating concrete.
The veins of destructed cities,
soldiers, Baghdad, Iraq.
Bleeding onto sand pressed streets
is blood that can't be
washed off the hands.
Can't be drained from the mind.
Crimson that now
darkens this soldiers baby blues.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
