I bought a Volkswagen after my tour in Germany,
top speed of maybe 75. Just enough to keep up
with the autobahn. The trains don't even chug
anymore, just sway. I say the most polished surface
in the world might be the top of the rails, which reminds
me of the bumper of that old Beetle which reminds me
of the absence of cow-catchers on trains today,
which didn't catch cows so much as split them in half.
It must have been the chill of the water that did it, holding
out his left hand that looks like a fractured cup, that one
long fissure in the brown earthen mug that refuses
to part, fingers at permanent grasp around the palmed scar.
They don't give you a purple heart for washing dishes
but they do send you home with your gun and hope
you finish the job––the war, some vendetta of the mind
against the flesh––yourself. He chuckles like the train wheels.