It Takes Two To Finish In Short Order.
poem 1 and poem 2
Sucking Chest Wound.
Desperate, fumbling fingers
scratch sulphur across damnation,
somewhere south of Da Nang.
Napalming three inches of browned
vegetation native to another land
then cupping the glow
tight against his chest.
Distant, slanted eyes flick obliquely
at this bane of many a dead soldier,
noting the coordinates revealed,
as his fired extinguisher belches death,
fatally venting fresh, smoke filled lungs.
This old bird has met his match.
in this pensioner savoring popcorn,
with no intention of sharing
his once weekly costly treat.
He has pigeonholed it in the folds
of his trench coat, carefully extracting
one kernel at a time, cupped in a closed fist,
till it vanishes into his deprived maw.
Buttered promises lie just beyond the reach,
of what one featherbrained flighty fancies.