Robert Bowers

 

Robert Bowers

 

 

I’m dug in deep, well-fortified

at night I’m counting sheep, or staring out at fireflies

On the street I nod and blink, I strike no separate chord

all who follow in my wake are as they were before.

Was it lack of love, a grim rejection

that gifted me with such perception

that guides my hands to knit and weave

the message and the meaning in the signals I receive?

I see the bankers and the movie stars, faces stuffed with caviar

while soldiers die in muddy trenches

I see their wives, I know the kind

they like to get inside your mind

try to help you to discover, this

fabled love for one another

I know that they could never figure

a still-born hand upon a trigger

I’m on my feet, I play to win.

Screw your optics.  I’m going in.