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by Timothy Russow Jr.

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(“Glorious! Victorious!” mobile version)

My blues fit deep with meaning | fabric and metal and cloth | and the spit-shine that
mirrors the sky | flagged with joy or sorrow or dissent | the mourning voices morning | we
march in-step and bugled | a karaoke chorus

Or covered in green and brown and black | adjusting the sight and the rat-a-tat-tat | and at
the count of three you will sing the Air Force Song 1, 2, 3 | off we go

Or the monochrome suede tan and brown | humming to myself because no one speaks |
just heat and sand and metal | and diesel exhaust and faces longing for home | I look in
the rearview mirror | and twist my hand left then right | their heads bob to the beat of my
silent laughter

Or the helmet vest and all the gear | at the head of the convoy | the driver’s seat where I
would be | and the sniper lying in wait | with the bullet that should be mine

Without the tune of the wind | or the sixteenth note of desire | Like Taps in a minor key

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