After anger, hurt got exposed
again. We sit quiet on a deck,
six feet above ground. A sprinkler
waves water east to west
across new grass, yellow straw,
but some drums hard, like soldiers’
cadence across the deck. Our cat
peeks from behind a post,
pads by, avoids our touch.

Matthew writes poems and short stories, and is worried how divided America is. Like Pink Floyd, he can no longer tell heaven from hell, blue skies from pain, a green field from a cold steel rail or a smile from a veil. Wish you were here.