Forward Zero

Around the old fashioned wood-fire,
bodies of children surrounded Grandpa.
Coughing, he lit a cigarette,
dipping his tongue in the palette of the matron sky,
empathizing with the earth.
Five long seconds went by before
Grandpa started.

How he was a lowly private
in the “war to end all wars,” he said,
jokingly in his arid breath of dying sunflower.
Kicking smoke from his
lungs he told us all,
“Move It! Move It! Move It!”
normally a lowly
“Over the hill boys! We can do it!”
private wouldn’t be in charge.

Quickly, Grandpa told us of his heroes
rallying the men, and his
serenade of promotions.
Taking the time to forget
useless facts, stacks and statistics,
variable, best-selling memories guaranteed
weepy.

Xeric, glass pools
yellow and ripe where the moonlight sleeps.
Zero lowly tears fell.