Paul shoveled dirt on the dead air between us.
He failed to see the silent part of our connection.
How the bonds grew stronger
the less we spoke and the more we sweat at the same chore.
He brought flowers to place on the freshly covered grave.
He laid them at an angle to the dirt and improvised marker.
Paul wanted me to account for my silence.
He warned me not to refuse to answer.
He was doubly negative back then, addicted to TV news.
With pointed finger, Paul expelled words like:
lazy, coward, unpatriotic and Fuck You!!!
Paul failed to examine the circumstances of our lives.
He was drunk on activism, important handshakes,
and desire to storm the Bastille.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

One thought on “Bastille

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