A pink mist puffs out
from the splash
of a bullet into 
the corporal’s gut;

a mutt tugs on 
a naked, swollen leg lying
on the shoulder
of the ragged, blasted
road, and 

all I seem
to be able
to think about is 
what it’s going to be like
to go home.

As for the way
the corporal fell, the way
the dog squealed and ran
when we spanked him with
a thrown rock —

I suspect I won’t recall those 
until I am home.

I suspect, 
they will be the only things
I can think of.  


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

One response to “Forecast

  • Eileen

    Like just isn’t appropriate for this. But as always, you take us there with you. Vivid, real, horrible, tragic and the thought of having to live with that is heartbreaking.

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