Mourning Morning
The Eastern window is open
and early morning birds sounds
invade the room.
Drawn blinds are no defense
as one after the other
the inevitable rays of light
sneak in around each shimmering slat.
At 5 o'clock.
The sun hangs like a red ball
in the middle of the white horizon,
a flaming standard.
The steam clings softly to the
bathroom mirror and like misty,
glorified remembrances masks
the true man's reality.
At 6 o'clock.
A breeze brushes the wind chime
hanging by the kitchen window,
a tiny cry.
The slant of the August sun
is already painful to my eyes
and tears make short trips down
the side of a breakfast glass.
At 7 o'clock.
Across the street, a dry field
plays home to a waiting boxcar.
My gaze drops down.
Hot water burns the face
of the egg-covered plates
as the softened yolks
slide off like skin...
8:15 and 32 seconds.
Where are the songs of yesterday?
I hear the echoing screams.
Turn off the air conditioning.
Sit down in the halls.
It's not over until the last
Fat Man falls.
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