After-effects of war-times


I’m waiting empty in a cold house,
with shamrocks, the cat and favored books,
listening for the old thud of new boots

gunning to kick- in this loose-hinged heart.

The grasping hands of minions
with much to lose, I imagine, close on me.
They drag me, incendiary,
into their infra-red night.

Unopened mail and seed starts on the table
is how my neighbors find me gone.
No bloated stench. No skeletal sneer.
Only a storm door banging mad in wind.

by G. Karl Marcus