counting.
the number of breaths
I held before
kissing my wife’s lips
for the first time.the number of tracers to ball ammunition.
5 and 1
5 and 1
5 and 1
5 and 1
5 and 1.the number of times
she blinked
her graying eyes
before tears
when I left.the number of blocks
south of Route Maryland
before I turn east
screaming
to a halt and we are off
coming hard and fast
to raid.the number of inches
she is shorter than me
fitting her perfectly
beneath my chin
when she is in my arms.the number of people we killed that day.
the number of seconds
it will take her
to recognize me
in the airport
when I come home.the number of hours
I can stay
in the city
on patrol
before I get irritable.the number of days
it will take us
to relearn
how to be near each other;
to sleep
to eat
to share the momentary brilliance
we have had to whisper over distance.the number of miles
I have driven
and walked
through sewage and refuse.the number of times
we will come together.the number of friends
who will not come home.the number of birthdays
and anniversaries
and Sundays
I have missed with her.the number of times I holler
‘CONTACT’
take cover
and prepare to return fire.the number of breaths
I will hold before
kissing my wife’s lips
for the first time, again.counting.
Copyright 2005 -- Scott Kirkpatrick -- All Rights Reserved
May not be used in whole or part without written permission of the Author