broken pens, burned papers
some stories mostly untold

he watched a train
stopped, salvoed rain
peppered around,
pluming towers of mud.

he grabbed a second gun,
running through the black
hiding in holes, bringing
the day – he gave back
the wrong one, got fined.

he lost a son to war,
some years later.

some memoirs, a medal,
old memories – quiet.


your fingertips bristle,
pin-pricked with potential,
grasping at the train
of a thought flowing past,
till you’re left half-remembering
a name and a face you’d rather not.