A Poem Happens
A poem happens every day, and so do things
like death and madness.
In so many ways, a twist or turn is unexpected.
Like a birth, the world is endless,
just as fate found us born here, in either this place or that one.
Growing old, the pain is thankless,
and the warrior fights an endless fight—always has, though.
And for what its worth, here’s the truth: War is human.
No protest or unenlightened backward opinion can change this,
or changes the streetcorner, brokedown, wheelchair man
on rainy El Camino on Memorial Day, dressed in a Veteran’s cap,
in no medals, and sadness.
Nothing can turn time, bend hard air, or ever change what happened.
The wars of our time rest on our shoulders, like heavy bags, strapped there.
The brutal ‘walk’ sign goes on, and the walking man shines,
and he rolls along with slow, heavy arms
with, who knows, maybe no one to help him
when he finally gets home.
And just then, for no reason, to no importance at all,
a poem happens between the two still streams of traffic.