As I pass by the local airport, I

Notice the hound lying on the side

Of the street; his eyes are closed as he sleeps.

Synthetic fumes enter into my nostrils,

One being the fumes of the stained dentures,

The other being from the tall towers.

 I hover lower before I see cars

To the side. A mother holds her child

As the broken glass and bumper lays before them.

The next car is upside down, with the hand

Sticking out. Possibly a Tom, John, Dick,

Or Harry. I travel some more before  

Resting on a light pole. A crowd with rifles

March in unison. Yet their black t-shirts

And camouflage pants make me aware

Of some type of dedication they have.

I watch as they walk toward colored shirts,

Who hold signs of flowers bloom from barrels.