Out back there is a cool spot in the yard.
On fall nights the air pools there leaving a
Misty white sheet draped like
Those American flags on the boys boxes
Coming home from some far nation,
Solemn, cold, dark
Faces of those men saluting
And I think of that cool spot sunken
Because I did not want to walk down
The newly turned ground from burying
Him, somehow it felt wrong, to trample
There in that moment.
I never went back, and nature came and went
Rains and such, then depression sunk,
And stuck, hence the pool of
Quiet fog, sitting out there now as
I drain my fourth glass of liquid life
And see again and again solemn
Faces of young men in blue dress
Wondering when they might return under
A curtain of red, white and blue fog.