When the sun drops

in wait and the shop doors

are locked, fleshy and irreverent

the dead flood the streets

and in their wake

any misconception

that this generation

hasn’t had a defining moment

is consumed. They jostle

for position, tattered flags

catching and pirouetting in moonlight.

Arms snag on mailboxes

gates trap heroes’ toes.

The ceremony proceeds for those

who know where to look

and the sibilant call grows

but, still, a mother can’t cry too loud

for fear of waking the president.

The eyes’ backlights

will burn out by dawn

the chaos will slow—myriad,

minute tufts of grass and pebbles

will sink back into place.

The best time to be okay with choices

is before the dawn breaks, so

America, turn your fear to steel.