dust-off by DB COX

clean-collar commuters
peer from the cover
of stylish shades
taking secret comfort
in a pathetic apparition
wrapped
in an army overcoat
nose down—
an overturned boat
in a pool of piss
baptized
purified
crucified
in the mute humility
of his own guilt
forever fighting
unfinished battles
tangled in green
triple-canopy dreams
while inside crusty
rust-filled ears
the white noise
of distant city traffic
hums like a “huey”
spectral medevac
searching for a soul
lost more
than forty years ago
somewhere along
the mekong river

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