There are dates rigged like
timebombs, just below
birthdays, anniversaries, deaths,
times to rejoice, times to lie terrified
in some mucky foxhole of memory.
Or perhaps these are the cairns of a
lifetime, pointing to events long
forgotten, piled high on the lost trails of
fog-bound peaks, where missteps
are not forgiven.
The year turns. The clocks are set:
January, June, a relentless ticking,
until a date arrives which is never quite
Armistice Day. Then the explosion, the dirt
flies, and we are blown fast
forward into the past.
All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter