After the War ~ 1945

And the figures on the porches
fathers and sons
who had returned from war
tried to let forgetting happen
as did mothers
who sat in wicker chairs
beside windows
where faded banners hung
with sons as golden stars.

They could only sit there, silent
on glider swings or those on chains,
others seeking calm in rocking chairs
their mothers had used
to rock them to sleep in
while around her
men had spoken of

Verdun, Marne or Argonne.

Now, if at all, language came
in broken strands
with long silent gaps between,
while those who heard
would search for meanings.
But nothing came about.
Only the back and forth of swings
grinding their metallic dirge.

Of a sudden, one of them rose,
shuffled out on warped boards

to the edge
to stare in battle-fright
at trees that slowly stirred
until someone assured him
they were but friendly pines
standing guard over his home,

his earth, his haven, his safe plot.

And the others?

What were they thinking?

Was it quiet gratitude,

for being where they were, 

safe, on a porch that evening

on Penn Street

gazing at the soft dim glow

of a streetlight.