byjoseph a. dandurand
you can see the fort from where I live. wooden walls,
trees,
desperate voices.they call to me,
come on over,
come on over,
come on.shut up,
I say.
shut up and stay over there.used to drink at their bar,
used to sip whiskey,
used to fight,
used to be blind from it all.now
I stare at their walls.
wooden walls.
thick with history.many men and women never made it home.
they found them trying to climb over the walls.
whiskey bottles broken and empty roll down to the
river.
laceless shoes sit silent as if waiting to fit someone else,
a picture of someone's mother blows away and over the
walls,
the gate is closed.the fort.
over that way.
over past the mass grave.
smallpox.
you ever seen smallpox?
pretty ugly.
not as pretty
as wooden walls.
From looking into the eyes of my forgotten dreams, Kegedonce Press.
© 2000 Joseph A. Dandurand. Ordering information.