Each cool morning I carry one
bowl of porridge across camp, crunching
boots across small chilled gravel to the north
berm of the parking lot to dine

From here the sky is widely

Large portions of sun
rise without gazing through chain
link, without
craning over t-walls.

This morning
Muttley the dog sniffs twenty
one cold trucks waiting in the
lot, looking for explosive

After a late night of
discipline, planning to
plan a plan,
offers my drowsy mind a fur
driven reminder that ego
driven pony shows are slipshod
illusion, only an officer’s
wet dream in a
war zone.



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