Remembrance Sunday
My dad always choked when he tried to name,
His friends and comrades who hadn’t returned,
From sorties, dogfights and reconnaissance jobs,
And would motion by his hands about church.
The service on Remembrance Sunday morning,
Would let his worn, torn-up, shredded insides out,
Give him his heart of thoroughfare and ambition,
Respected his silence on the matter of the mind.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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