What did the men do after the war?
After Normandy, Bataan, Bastogne or Berlin.
In between everything else,
the boom and rush of getting back to it.
Now that they had seen what they had seen,
how do they unsee?
Maybe Bing sang with the wind round back.
Back where the new concrete patio met the miracle of green, green grass
in the square of The New American Math.
No one around, at least not for now.
Wives busy by white sinks with white soap and white dish.
Kids not yet named but on the way.
Did their rattled bones settle to resting ease in a new, nylon chair from Sears?
Could trembling hands lift clear, cool, glass in the sun, ice melting slow.
I would imagine even the bills, even the unpaid bills, even very many of them
couldn’t cause shake or shiver.
And no Boss was big enough, not a single barking one.
Not after that.
I hope this was now, the sweetest, softest time.
Like no time.
A breeze as they say.
Sean Sullivan 2009