We Sit Inside His Car
He sits with me inside his worn car
as we wait to gather with others.
At least once a day we come.
He fought in one war; I another.
You know what war is; or if you do not,
let me tell you. It can place in you
so many aspects of confusion
for which there seems no sure solution.
And then all you want is to be stoned
or naked among unknowns, or both.
Maybe then, your constant afraidness,
or raged consummations from anger
will be replaced by torpid blankness,
from which you awaken in porch swings
on streets you never set foot upon.
To discover your children are gone
granted to the homestead of others;
your wife alone somewhere in Georgia;
all signs of your welcome removed.
So to me that is what war becomes.
Now, I can sit inside his worn car,
hear his version of the same story;
dream maybe I will find and keep work;
maybe my daughter will call.