by Tom Franken

The graffiti dances into my periphery, tagged
fresh and white onto the ramshackle remains of
someone’s home.

“No woke till war-town.”

I can almost hear the spray can’s death rattle.
Heavy and hollow, like my grandfather’s voice.

My father’s father, trenchfooted and dour,
who nested an egg of mill money into the
house on Campbell Street with the peeling
paint and gravel drive.

He stayed rooted there, from GI Bill bustle
to gunshots echoing just down the block

I imagine him rising from the green-gray
folding chair, Marlboro dangling between
thumb and trigger finger, simmering.

“Those goddamn idiots don’t know what war is.”

His war-town, steel-scarred, its orange
skies gone monochrome. His home.