Some continue
And go elsewhere
Others we dive from
And they miss
But one or two
Hit
Home
No actual explosion
Just sit there
Outside my French window
Stepping out
Watching the others
Fly by
Avoiding
And glad
No care
Where they land
Looking at this one
Old
Scratched and dented
Runes of pitting
And rust
A leather belt or jerkin
Tied around the top
Coming loose
I take it carefully
But leave the rest
Instead I leave it there
Point buried
Like the iceberg
One it isn’t mine
Two it’s of another age
Three
It’s not my war
It’s still there
To one side
Of the French windows
It doesn’t interfere
Just remains there
cheryl bhagwandin