Silvered in fog the old man marvels 
        at the process. Secure 
        in this devastation. Despised with rancor 
        only enemies can muster. His message 
        more cryptic than prose. The woman 

        screams. Shrieks mad incantations you pray 
        will never come your way. Two children 
        in dirt, shattered in ways you’ve never seen, 
        broken in ways you swear will never visit your own.
        Denying their cupric stench like crazed priests 
        in confession. Aren’t we all bereaved,

        the way punks cruise fast to any law, 
        smash bone and reappear on some court docket? 
        These things are best not 

        resolved. And this house. Cold 
        in winter wind. In this way we all grow old. 
        Listening to the same worn story. Contemplating

        our lines. Listening as our sons 
        won’t. Listening as our 
        sons have never heard. The same worn story. 
        Tattered by lives. Warming our thoughts 
        past all we declare sane. Anticipating 
        the sudden thud of truth. 

        You drive back from Basalt. Intent, 
        bent on hope that you, too, will someday 
        scream. Waiting years with no sound. 
        Driving fast. Going home past all 
        we endure. Going home, 
        with every broken thing.