The patriot in suit, brown eyes grown
wide from watching
and not sleeping has his index finger locked
and waiting pointing up to the ceiling or
beyond to the sky and beyond that to the fading
o in the ozone and into space.

Here F-15s should fly by leaving patterns for us to see.

And do.

The finger looks like the tallest skyscraper on earth and there’s a piece of string wrapped around the digit and the man says aloud, “Remember me.”

New York City.

And he knows the smell of gunpowder that
gave birth to a nation—the only under God.
The only under God and it feels good to say that.
It’s a trademark or watermarked bill.

Sorting the rubble with embers from a fire left burning
drinking red, white and blue cola,
he thinks of a suit of a superhero’s tailor.

It’s a household name, he thinks. It’s a brand.

And he is sucking on his finger now to relieve the soreness.

The patriot dreams in a nation of suits playing taps for ghosts come, gone and come again.

And don’t go into the world but if an American should, go out in an age like the information age to die someday floating in a sea of pride with white hot hair as wise as 200 years or more should make a human being…

Christopher Bowen
Currently living in Ohio