by John Grey
the soldier kisses, shakes hands,
takes one good look at a dozen faces
before joining the end of the security line.
At gate 12,
he’s on his own,
in an uncomfortable plastic seat,
his roll behind his knee,
glancing around at the usual mix
of vacationers, businessmen,
family off to see more family.
No roadside bombs where they’re going.
No brainwashed local recruit
about to turn his rifle on
Florida beaches, Chicago conference rooms
or homes in small towns in Wisconsin.
Just rude kids.
Curt woman at
the airline counter.
It’s a time out
from those worth dying for.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie
Review and failbetter.