Thanksgiving

With the target just in view,

they’d heard and knew to scatter.

We’d cast down better bombs

upon those who didn’t matter.

Cloaked in past droppings,

a garment to unseal,

tomorrow might be sunnier

if not less unreal.

Embers blow on concrete,

steel boot toe kicked.

The ashes keep on falling

from burst enemies licked.

Bitter bombs away

over this smiling river’s truth.

Tonight we won’t be blamed

for hiding in our youth.

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Mark Falkin

Mark Falkin

Writer of novels The Late Bloomer and Contract City