Hottest memorial day on record,
okay, so I’m making that up, but could
still be true. The Marine who never
really talks about it sits at the bar
he makes jokes at and posts
a poem on insta; it’s how I know
he’s there, I’m not there.
My Grandfather and Uncle and several
cousins have all carried guns for
America and lost or seen things I
never want to, at least, I assume.
There’s a lot of not talking about it,
but if the things that they’ve seen
are like the bodies in the documentaries
I’d bury myself in science fiction
and whiskey, or never want either
ever again.
Hottest memorial day week to date, well
probably not, but I wonder if I ever
have a child, will they be sent to the same
war I avoided with essays about
Pacific Northwest imagery in the works
of Raymond Carver. A bit like
the skit about the ice cream taster
and the heart surgeon. The soldiers
I know are always the first
to tell me what I do is necessary
and usually I believe that they
believe that, and try to write honestly.
I do not know what music to
play in the bar tonight, since most
people will be making jokes
about bar b ques or anticipating
returns to different types of
drudgery. All I know is that
it’s the
hottest day in the history of days
and there are machines and technological
advances that mean I may get
to fight in that war yet, and the music
here is a bit on point: the entire
empty coffeeshop just burst out
in a singalong to “Is there life on maars?”
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