Ten Years

You  are going to make it
whatever you need it
to be:

fireballs for patriotism,
two fingers raised on high
before folding,
heroes and victims and flags
and lies, dust,
gold salvaged for tacky coins,
bones, parts, mysteries, 
excuses for more and more
of the same, souvenirs,
graveyard tourism, shining
city in a hole, just another day,
a beautiful early fall day, 
no clouds, warm enough,
a promise of a good fall,
feeling special, all the world
a stage for the next delicious act, then
sandbags cut loose, damn, 
it’s a damn horror flick, must be,
let’s rewrite the script, let’s 
animate it, 3-D it, make it
part of your movie —

oh, for a bit of rest.
For a pillow, a clean pillow,
and a night not bugged 
by listeners. A night that turns into
a good morning, a start to a lifetime
where nothing ever happens again
and days follow nights
that contain nothing but sheep
and sleep and waking up
in familiar arms.