War Poetry

Early 21st Century

There is a naked man
sitting in his pick-up
parked on a promontory
overlooking the ocean.

He has been there
a long time, facing
west, or maybe east
with the engine running
and his foot on the gas.

From time to time
for no apparent reason
he presses
the accelerator
all the way
to the firewall
and holds it there, making
the engine scream
at majorpsychosisthreshold.

Then, maybe for days
he backs off
and just lets it idle
as clouds blow over him
and the sun either rises
or sets and the air
around him boils with exhaust.

By Robert Tremmel