By Burton Rabbe

In the small towns,

in the country,

it is either marriage or war

that we honor.

 

The chickory here are sky blue.

Paler than dress blue.

Paler than gun blue.

Paler than the bluebirds.

 

The blue flowers

bloom for miles.

Roadside blooms

instead of roadside bombs.

 

Jake would walk the gravel

road and pick flowers

to take home

or smell the licorice.

 

Jake stopped by the road

and picked the flower.

Flower blue in one hand,

gun blue in the other.

 

He smelled the licorice,

then blew out his brains.

He would not do a fourth tour.