Standing at the Edge of the Quilt
each time I shut my eye
Sometimes the symbol gets soft
at all the proverbial edges,
when you see the volunteer guard
set giant squares free,
while dancing on those off-white walkways
that connect crack babies
with aspiring drag queens
and all the delicate kids
who had to be careful playing outside
with Nebraska farm boys
who never thought
this one time would count.
I feel hollow,
like the vacuum of air
between strokes on the drum roll
in my hometown, once a year.
I close respectful eyes,
and use another bus stop.
In the flat frame of mind
that doesn't see the glass half full,
I question my time to join the tour.
I think of who might attend my vigil
with shaking hands;
how many days may pass
between the crumbling of topsoil
and the folding of cloth.
So I wait at the edge of the Quilt
like the kid in the back
of class watching the captains choose teams.
I watch the bodies dwindle down
and wonder when my name will be called.
copyright 2005 by Brian Bengtson
- From the book FIRST CHILL: A COLLECTION OF
POETRY, published 2005 by PublishAmerica
