The Poems
byF. WIlliam Broome
The Depth of America
Hearing patriotic words,
seeing our flag become ours, again,
returning to kindness as normal,
signs of a changing America.
True healing grips the nation,
cutting ties with greed and indulgence,
scourge of the twentieth century,
a return to word-as-bond values.
Putrid politics drowning
in a cauldron of immorality,
exchanged for new leadership,
responsible, capable, determined.
A surge of confidence,
imbued with the red, the white, the blue,
of a country's courage and purpose,
to defend freedom and its keepers.
Our covenant: defeat disparate enemies
bent on taking from us
that which cannot be conveyed,
only earned, honored, and safeguarded.
For Dad's Lunch
It's for your lunch, I said to my Dad,
handing him a big red apple.
Dad took the apple, saying it spoke
for him, that I was the apple of his eye.
He leaned to kiss my forehead
and I hugged him real tight-like.
He reminded me that it was Tuesday,
so he would be late after his meeting.
It was 7:40, and I hustled to get going
for my school classes starting at 8:05.
The first hour passed swiftly, but
a few minutes into the next hour,
my world blew away in a maelstrom
of death and destruction never known
in an American city before today.
My stomach knotted as I retched,
realizing, as each tower began to fall,
that today's gift apple would never be
a part of the lunch wished for my Dad.
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