The Writer
I look for
illumination,
enlightenment,
words as clear and sharp
as a city-less winter night.
I find only
the wooden stump of a leg,
Jack’s,
at the bar
again
resting on a stool
with the medal
tacked to it,
the one he won
in the war.
“Win that before
Or after you fell off
your Daddy’s tractor,
Jack?”
from the stalls in the back.
Jack pats it and rubs the medal
looking for a stranger
to tell him his story.
This is it then-
the neon reflections,
the lies-his, theirs, mine-
of a carefully carried
past.
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