Poetry

Time is a Sopwith Camel

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

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