I have ten more minutes until 1 a.m.
I promised myself 1 a.m. but not a minute more.
Until 1, I swore to picture the victims of war.
It is ten more minutes before I can put down
this pencil. Ten minutes until a stupid time.
In ten minutes, I can relax in the shadows,
sink into the bed, draw up the covers,
and give the ghosts the bum’s rush when they hoot
at my deadline. The dying overflow
the ground set aside for them, and broken vets
have claimed the sidewalks. The stoves are frozen
that used to warm families in peacetime.
The casualty numbers go into desk drawers.
And I see in my mind the soldier whistling
at the front under a thin blanket. And the one
standing guard like a monument off its pedestal.
I have ten minutes more, which is all I can stand.
I have to go on, while time runs backward.