The center of the world is here—he pins the spot
in a straw grass field—declares it for queen
and country, will gladly shed what is required,
blood if asked, sweat and grind—the air smelling
of saw dust. He grips the handle of a tool—
shovel, hoe, sword, spear—the real of it is lost
in the glaze.
I find you in an empty room— you look up
from your book, not all that pleased to see me.
He drives to a desert mountain town to drink tequila
with an old war buddy. They sink into the pine wood
floor while the bartender pours another shot. Shares
an old tale without speaking. He leaves and makes
his way down an alley in the darkness, his feet dancing
on the edge of the solar system.
Finds the old house, abandoned now—a shattered
window. Shimmies the door lock and enters—
the rooms bare. Moonlight.
You look up from your book.
Brady
From an Upstairs Window