Time is a Sopwith Camel, flying in figure eights
The smoke-trails sutured against a nimbus tapestry stay in place
Camels were never meant to fly
Now the pilot is dead, and the war is over
And the soil has been fed with strange humors of children
Of gold, of guts, of glory among happy endings
Come home
But across the dining table, a mother laments the place-mat stains and empty chairs
While father cries facing the television, raises the volume and stares into space
For it’s after curfew
The smoke signals snake and slither, cease and shiver, still remain
In the rain, a camel drips with bitter embers, coloring the poppy fields for a brief moment
Soon, time will pluck the petals and grind them to ashes
Come home