Insects have transformed into
a graveyard the windshield of
my Indian Scout. My brother
rumbles down the engine of his
Chief, pulls off his gloves, loads
the camera & silently snaps
a photo of a Lake Michigan
blue sky big as God’s hands.
The photos of his buddies
show them sober, a little bit
green a little bit yellow, waiting
to be shipped out, waiting
while a train prepares for
departure, waiting for
their futures to arrive,
their shadows detached from
their bodies, strewn across
the ground ahead of them.
Served my country
he said to me. Now
I want to see it.
Never discussed his plans
with dad during supper
or mom over morning
coffee, never talked
except to say it’s a sin
to commit murder. We avoided
the speed traps in Minnesota
North Dakota towns, landscapes
bleached yellow by goggles, hills
Timothy Cook, an Edgewater Chicago native, graduated from Loyola University with a BA in philosophy and from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. His poems have recently appeared in such locations as The Main Street Rag, Rogue Agent, Thin Air, and [PANK] Health and Healing Folio, and he is a recipient of a grant from the Mookie Jam Foundation, which supported artists living with multiple sclerosis.
