Good Posture in Times of War.

Trying so hard,
He prints the letters
on stationary
with fake green grass and tulips
printed on the top.
The way he holds the pen
with that awkward posture
akin to the curvature of his back
bent over since he got back
from the war.
Since I can remember when.

Framed in the light
of the window,
lamp desk and typewriter
on the right of the room-
The red painted room,
two shades of optimism lighter
than the blood of young men
oblivious of consequence.

They ignite engines
and jaywalk all the crosswalks.
Ride to war.
Nothing will happen
but come back a hero
having fought against somebody,
against yourself,
perhaps.

Everything tastes like potatoes and rice.
Nothing is clean anymore.
Everything smells like metal and rotting dirt.
My lips are dry and I grease them with axle
grease
like they did on the Oregon Trail
and died from hemlock and perhaps incest
to find the Promised Land.
But I'm alive
I think.
I send you letters
but tear up each one
deliberately, working hard
and slowly run out of ink.

Anticipate the day
when we can be together again
whetted clay, squelching and
turning on the wheel, on the tree swing
touched by a whispering translucent rain.
Your graceful body off the train,
my weakened muddy frame uproots itself
to you-
You to whom I sing-
becoming strong.