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No soldiers had been killed today, by the time, at least, I turned off the radio; no mother holding a limbless child to her breast lately of ashes, all ashes which we’ll never see, nor ever forget. Nothing, but the radio, god of the kitchen, petrified and tuned to silence. Yet, you continue to concern me —face in camouflage mask so that even you may not see what happens within your nightly dream of non-return, non-refund. Is it fair to mention we have never met, though sometimes at night a hand reaches out, mine or yours, to a body perceived as only a pocket of old needs disturbing the air? In better times, some one passed through this space allowed to us, some one we both knew and grew attached to in his or her early morning comings and goings, opening and closing the cupboard doors of our little kitchen, which became a sort of wake-up call —not a bugle, though we may not be here any more and this was only coffee. I smell burning rubber now. A house may at any moment explode. Does the law always demand memory? They’re covering the eyes now. What we are left to wear are only the footsteps that have brought us here. |
| Vincent Spina: I have a few things published in mags such and Modern Review, and I'm waiting for a book that should come out in March from Pecan Grove Press. email: spinaphd@yahoo.com |
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