by Bill Glose

She’s saying something about a show
on HGTV; someone has traded spaces

or simply invaded another’s. But my mind
is still in the desert. With gunfire.

Explosions. Plumes of dust.
Her lips move up and down,

voice muffled as if coming
from a closed coffin. If only

life were as simple as
a remodeling show. She could

spackle, splash color, bend
the world to her design,

while I accept whatever
changes greet my return.

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