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Poetry

All Quiet On Sara's Side of the Bed

by Barrett Warner


    There's a pot-hole depression
    in the mattress where Sara used to sleep,
    making a zag with her body
    like a bolt of pale lightning
    to lie beside in the dark,
    dry shadowless storms in our ears.
    What strange dreams she must have had,
    sleeping in that pot-hole.
    Often she mumbled the names
    of federal agencies out of sequence:
    the Library of Revenue,
    the Department of Food and Transportation,
    the Smithsonian Institute of Internal Congress.
    Her voice was foggy
    like some late night October
    drive through Damascus or Westminster.
    Now it's quiet on her side,
    no lightening, no long empty sounds.

    Every so often I go to Washington
    and visit places: the Supreme White House
    Monument of the Jefferson Memorial Cemetary
    of the Tomb of the Unknown Arts Endowment.
    It's a popular exhibit,
    they make you stand in line
    and wait and wait and wait forever.

 

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