Our military camps have no names now.
They hold their breath.
Soldiers form a center line
for politicians to choose sides.
The parade ground is a warm blanket
thrown over cold shoulders.
A steamy day suffocates
onlookers in the grandstands.
The narcotics of despair
blister the service branches.
There are no extraordinary renditions
of Portland protesters that we know of.
A red rush of toxic words
requires a translator
as we pull the dirty bandaid
off of old wounds.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney