Article 11

Timothy PilgrimAt the Vietnam War Memorial  Aged. Going down, gutted. Again. More and more names. Anderson, Andrews.   Archer — stole my girl, died in some dark tunnel. Hate, too high a price. Fingers    trace names, memory glazes over. Black granite reflects my life, ghostlike history, life, a haze,   enemies and friends, like Archer, remembered — war out of mind. So many to recall.   Soon, one final reflection, mine, on stone. It's definitely me, us, U.S., I don’t believe, trust.    Eclectic suitcase Masked, virus to flee, hurried pack for flight back, laundry flung  into any bag. My socks, jeans, briefs,  your dresses, skirts, undies,   bras. Totally inconsiderate, teddies,  shirts in one wad. A thousand years  from now — confusion. Archeologists at plane-crash dig,  sifting boxers, panties, tees, perplexed at what it could mean.     Timothy Pilgrim is a Pacific Northwest poet and 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee. He has several hundred  acceptances from journals such as Seattle Review, Santa Anna River Review, Windsor Review, San Pedro  River Review, Toasted Cheese, Otoliths and Hobart. He is author of Mapping Water.     previous page&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp contents&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp next page