Practice

Practice

There they are again.

Faint thuds, incessant,

demanding attention

like an unlatched

barn door banging

in the winter wind.

Perhaps that’s all it is,

a door ajar;

or a pile-drive pounding

columns for the overpass

that will (we are promised)

help us navigate

the snarling traffic;

or the boy two streets down,

imagining a game

on the line, dribbling slowly

as he readies for the

final shot.

But I deceive myself.

I know if I travel

a few miles southwest,

past the spoiled Ogeechee

and twisted pines,

I’ll see mangled earth,

I’ll feel air crinkle

with concussive

power. Ft. Stewart

trains for death.

Soon

they’ll set their sights

on flesh, on foreign

barns and bridges,

just as hopeful as

my neighbor kid that

practice pays off.

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This is a second draft of an earlier poem--still not fully satisfied with it, but it seemed to fit tonight's prompt over at dVerse, where poets Victoria Slotto and Pamela Sayers have us writing about our places of residence. I live in Savannah, GA. I could have written about a lot of things, for Savannah is a city of wonderful beauty and history. It is also a military town, with three bases within close driving distance. I chose to write about that.