Not whizzing (a pox on that thought)…
whizzing through…
on a Sunday afternoon
Plenty of sunshine
On this cool, crisp day
Whirling with winds that sigh lightly
Waiting for your name display
And the weather belies that insistent
angst–waiting impatiently for word,
impatiently for reassurance,
for anything–
And the order is faith,
faith that all is well, that the war
you’re waging will calm down,
that the battle will be over
before you are,
That what whizzes by your ear
is the same whisper of wind
that whizzes by mine
and not the bullet
nor shrapnel nor widow-maker mine
that enemies hope will tear you
down.
I hope you are whizzing through, too,
Knowing that we twiddle away time
nervously gnawing that lower lip,
Anxious for a simple sound
That you are there
That you are fine
That I can say “I love you,”
just one more time.
And you, oblivious to this,
go on your merry way
As Marines march in time
ooh-rah! ooh-rah!
Killing, protecting, believing
That your return
Is as important as their own.
Word Play 