Poetry Archive

Spring Returns to Abu Ghraib

The show begins with riveting might,
rosettes of fire blooming in succession,
thrilling the most jaded viewers with
streamers of red, yellow, orange, and white
A chorus of booms faster than a heartbeat
echoes in the quiet of our living rooms.
By millions we raise our flags to wave
as spring returns to Abu Ghraib.

Have you heard about the talking dog?
(It's making the rounds on the Internet.)
We wonder why Britney shaved her head
and learn that Anna died of an overdose,
but Paris looks good this time of year.
Our stock is down and we fear recession.
Half of us spend more than we can save.
Still, new buds appear near Abu Ghraib.

On dusty screens we see the body count,
impatient for it to end so we can watch
American Idol (Paula seems bored again).
We wonder what Rummy is doing in
retirement.  Did he join the VFW?  Write
his memoirs?  Been golfing with friends?
The storm approaching could be grave
especially in the soil at Abu Ghraib.

The Weather Channel predicts a late
winter frost may kill the tomatoes;
outside, a cold east wind bends stiff
boughs through they do not break.
We fold our hands and thank God
over leftover turkey and apple pie,
clinging to what honor we can save
as spring trips north to Abu Ghraib.

                                      Terry Bacon

 

 

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