black summer
we left nearly everything
there was no other way
to capture the flag
the only thing that seemed to matter
in the summer of sixty-nine
I remember I had
only wanted to play ball
but that was never in the cards
instead left strategizing
in someone’s low-lit basement
we could only assume
our house had been bombarded
likely laid to waste
while surviving relatives
roamed about like zombies
we had received word
of the headless horse
galloping into the orangish moon
a clear signal it was time to fly
the archers unloading their arsenal
june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
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