by Matthew Peter Ross

At the DMV, his daughter
clings to him like she'll never
let go. If memory serves,
she's about four years old.

Just back from another tour,
he doesn't recognize me.
To be honest, I don't recognize
the dark impatience in his eyes.

I want to say something—
talk about crops, complain
about last night's storm.
In the end, I leave him alone
with his daughter
and his memories of war.

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