Route Fourteen Sonnet

His prosthetic arm
feels his footsteps all the more
as the rain calls his name
to be baptized in the raised lake falling.

A sunlight hallway appears in the sky,
suggests a brighter path
back to where he has never been—
so different than the man who went off to war.

His hair grows long. Not in protest.
Not by intent. But an explosive indifference
to the toned down senses required
where rural roads are safe to walk.

Duty and objectives pacify the jitters.
Twenty miles of gravel shoulder policed is a start.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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