Crossing that Canadian line on a visitor pass,
that stretch across the border divide,
that makes a torn war wound, torn man free.
It made my feet new away from cinder on fresh grass.
Back home the sirens of war keep sounding off.
All us wearing the new/old bloodstains,
poetry images of erections of WW2, a real war.
Dirty hands your memories, red white and blue justifications, hell.
Who does not have memories, habits 1 or at least 2-
bad cinder charcoal in the dark flame.
September is early in Canada in October.
Leaves fall early swirling in the North,
October but at least the bullets cease.
Cast a poem you likely died in Vietnam come back wounded.
Come back home, alive and you likely live life, die wounded.
Here comes again the thunder, the rain, lightening,
war bore.
Crossing a border divide.

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Michael Lee Johnson kindly made available for us an audio, reading of the poem. You can listen to it, HERE!