Through Smoke

Walking through smoke like
a crazy dream like
Antietam,
like Custer's last stand,
like Nam and a million other
battles that have not
been mine.

What has been mine, the walk
through cemeteries from
fresh dirt to fresh dirt.
The walk through ICUs and
oxygen tents. The walk through
the fight to remain middle class.
The walk through a million
somethings I didn't ask for,
just like everyone else.

But this is not what I mean.

I can feel the field of war
in my chest, like some
foolish or mistaken foot soldier
taken by a virulent dream.
Confidence is like that. No,
victory is like that. There is
no such thing as safety after,
because you know the loss
in safety.

Walking through smoke,
like walking through the film
of envy, disappointment and
the inheritance of the meek.
The second, false skin
of deserving.

In the human life,
there is only smoke and
walking through smoke.