Seems to me there’s a story in those britches.
Some tears left open, and some with stitches.
Were they scourge or bramble torn?
There’s no doubt they’re world worn.
But there’s a story in those britches.
***
A tale tragic? A tale of woe?
Tell me the way your story flows.
Did you make some great escape?
Or just thieve bottles of the grape?
Did you get caught upon the fence?
Or self-inflict out of penitence?
***
Looking back,
tell me now,
Were you raging when they died?
Your kinsmen in days of fratricide?
Did you know them? Did they hope
you’d dangle down a rescue rope?
And pull them out of the kill box?
Magic carpet over paddy and ox?
***
Field of glory. Field of mud.
Did you call to the Lord above?
Did he hear you? Did words hold sway?
Or do you hate him to this day?
***
Do you wake up with the sweats?
Knowing how many steps he gets
before he falls, calling out your name?
Does the dream always end the same?
Or on some nights is history revised?
The plan proceeds as it was devised?
You chopper back full and grinning?
Then can you sleep to a new day’s beginning?
By B Gourley in Poetry, poem on September 9, 2017.
