August overcast —
another son
gone to war

new moon

it’s not about pride.
it’s not about the way you tilt your head
hair dancing gently on your shoulder
when you ask me for the keys.
it’s not your plaintive stare
which is quite frankly adorable.
it’s this thing
this unintelligible voice;
it’s my search
for a shooting star
in the suburban sky.
it’s my desire
to explode
over Boston Harbor
cameras racing.
it’s the end
beginning
repeat.