Unmown grass, marble slabs,
markers for the perpetually lost,
and found amongst all of this,
yet one more funeral,
leftover from a war
which just won’t be forgotten;
revisited annually by some,
remembered daily by others.
Observing the old guard,
fresh dirt, drooping flags,
platitudes, and drops of tears:
remains of another day’s internment;
twenty-one guns in staccato fire
and taps played weakly with an
expiring breath of dead flowers
and a fading memory.
One inch of Espresso in a three-dollar cup.
A double jolt for the morning as I try to wake up.
Another day elongated after a plastered evening.
I’m bent over and staring at the dregs of my being.
Is there is a deeper meaning to Plaster of Paris?
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember, the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.
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