Timothy Pilgrim

At the Vietnam War Memorial
Aged. Going down, gutted. Again.
More and more names.
Anderson, Andrews.
Archer — stole my girl, died
in some dark tunnel. Hate,
too high a price. Fingers 
trace names, memory glazes over.
Black granite reflects my life,
ghostlike history, life, a haze,
enemies and friends,
like Archer, remembered — war
out of mind. So many to recall.
Soon, one final reflection, mine,
on stone. It's definitely me, us,
U.S., I don’t believe, trust.

Eclectic suitcase

Masked, virus to flee, hurried pack
for flight back, laundry flung

into any bag. My socks, jeans, briefs, 
your dresses, skirts, undies, 

bras. Totally inconsiderate, teddies, 
shirts in one wad. A thousand years

from now — confusion.
Archeologists at plane-crash dig,

sifting boxers, panties, tees,
perplexed at what it could mean.

Timothy Pilgrim is a Pacific Northwest poet and 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee. He has several hundred 
acceptances from journals such as Seattle Review, Santa Anna River Review, Windsor Review, San Pedro 
River Review, Toasted Cheese, Otoliths and Hobart. He is author of Mapping Water.
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