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.