When the armored tank was hit, your buddy
went from slamming banging wolfwhistles
to take my pulse, take my breath
something fuzzy going on hey hey in your head
the desert lit up like a concession stand for Christmas
in the dust storm. Your sergeant talks
like a caveman’s professor, hell, everyone’s on pills,
waiting to soap up in Tehran, everyone’s safety-pinned
to the promise of home, maraschino cherries in Omaha,
snow, a twenty for every beggar in New York City:
baby, I’m sorry if I don’t write back but I lost the dog.
I just opened the car door and he ran into the night.
By B.J. Buhrow
1 comment:
I've published three books, "House Fire", "Nude Queen of the Communist Cannibals, and "L'Hopital de la Vierge Perdue". I've also published individual poems in many journals including "A Fine Madness, "Mudfish," and "The Spoon River Poetry Review." An excerpt from one of my poems "To Start" was included as "integral art" (inscribed on a wall) in the Midwest Express Center in Milwaukee, WI.
I have one daughter and live with my mutt in Milwaukee, WI.
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