Even in this drought, sprinklers form fountains
over the grass strewn with fallen leaves.
Bent men place flags on the graves
the gravestones standing at attention
in the veterans cemetery
where I come to honor my father.
I stop to talk to the gardener
who calls himself, “a gold-plated grunt
cursed with a good job.”
He stops pulling weeds, he says he’s thirsty
then he says he’s wasting away.
He says he thinks too much.
Nine months at war
and the rest of his life
not at peace.
When he speaks
he presses his hands over his face
fingertips dug into his brow
then rakes his fingers down and
rubs his eyes as if there is something
he doesn’t want to see.
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