Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

eside him, “Comrade, what if I crossed
the checkpoint now — what if I walked
right into the West — would you shoot me?"
His companion’s face locks in agony.
“You didn’t say that, comrade. I didn’t see you.
My gun — ” he smiles — “My gun could jam.”
He waves to the guards on the other side.
He takes a breath. He runs,
and no one fires a shot behind him.
Where an oak leaf trembled and fell
a piece of sky now admits the blue
of the alter heavens. The leaves are astir.
They don red jackets for their breakaway.
Where once a guard stood resolute,
a question mark settles like a gull,
a dare replaces a salute.
The guards are all investigated.
The sergeant who assigned the guards is demoted.
The lieutenant in charge of the sector
is brought before a loyalty board.
The army considers more robots and dogs.
Along the wall, the stones themselves
shift in their mortared places and ask
Why are we here?
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