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.