I was once sealed in a plastic bag
and floated across the sea.

My unintentional goal
was the Texas-sized pacific gyre.

The solitude I sought was not there
in the crowded whirl.

You said something to me once
that started this adventure.

This running away, really,
from your wild screaming.

Arms flailing like tentacles
about the trash and recycling

and the danger of chicken salad
left out on the counter too long.

And all I could think of in reply was
that June twenty-fifth

was the one hundred and seventh anniversary
of Gettysburg’s fiftieth anniversary.

You know. The celebration
where history was rewritten for the South.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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