Papa

A little grimace

then a larger one.

Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,

no production line,

not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots

in the midst of a cratered countryside

the soil, like mist;

floating in front of the midday sun

and men, sweaty and tired,

fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-

save one.

A large groan,

a tug from a cold glass

and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-

zeal for country followed by swift sentences-

an eye for an eye and all that;

but there was something beneath it all,

something overlooked,

sitting in the muddy trench

covered with the same dirt, sweat

and blood.

They were all moving forward

but there he was, unsure of his path-

his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,

the inches gained

and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;

but through the fog

there is a figure-

his reason, duty be damned;

there was his peace.

The hard hands pause

knuckles crack, and wild eyes

stare out the window.

They see the sun,

they see the sky and clouds;

and when the weathered hands begin again

recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper

they write with love;

and we feel it.