What should I tell you?                            

About molten steel

Industrial lava

Incinerating everything

As I stare into red oblivion

About shattered shop windows

Blown out by shotgun blasts

Fired from some kid’s old Ford

About scratching skin bloody

Through grain dust so thick

You wait to drown a dry death

About priests in black with

White neon collars nailing us

To crosses we carved ourselves

About small men fighting

For little gain, unheroic,

The appalling pettiness pervasive

No. I will tell you of this


Hot black coffee and

Warm crusty rolls slathered

With butter shared with my father

Before going to work together.