La sola vida en busca del Dios.

It's a day care center
on a college campus
with a close view
of a veteran's cemetery;
all phases of life
crammed into one-tenth
of a geographic coordinate.
I always wanted to be
a cartographer, though all I know
is that they do something
with maps
valleys and peaks
depicted by fine lines
swirling across a faded green page.
There's a comfort in that
which only exists there in the
painlessly hypothetical, and I
embrace the lie like a lover.

I leave the infant stage
to cross over to the adolescent
in search of cold cafeteria food.
There's a headline
in a newspaper machine
about a young couple who
chose to succumb to carbon monoxide
in their garage, holding hands in bucket seats
since they couldn't justify
bringing a child into this world.
The ugly ducklings have lost their braces
and found that swans were half-cocked liars.
It's like when you see cars
adorned with snow on the highway
and wonder where the hell
they've come from
since it's been fifty-five and sunny
all week long in your little
neck of the woods.
It's like that, only not.
The eggs are over-hard
the short-order cook is overpaid
and I know my toast won't penetrate.

On my way back from the caf
I see a man of about sixty-five
in a green wool cap
and heavy overcoat
walking his dog
through the boneyard, that memorial to
that last hurrah.
Man's best friend
stops to piss on the deceased
who fought in the name of this land
and part of me wants to call out
to his owner:
"Hey! Have you no respect for the dead?"
But I don't bother since I know
that he will join them soon
and therefore has a comprehension
far beyond my own sophomoric dabbling.
My foreman takes his coffee from my hand
sips it gently, grimaces discreetly
since I can only make it
how I take it, light and sweet.
"Jesus, kid. You'll die
of diabetes before you reach my age."
If he knew my other vices
he'd reassess the cause and time of death.

We sit on the toolboxes awkwardly on break.
Through the window I see an old widow
bringing a wreath to her husband's flat headstone
that's perfectly flush with the ground
like all of the other soldiers' markers.
At least in death they're equal.
The widow's hair keeps standing straight
on one side where the wind is whipping.
She struggles with the small hammer
she's brought as she fastens the wreath
to the ground next to her husband's name.
After completing the task she stands over
the grave for a moment, head bowed
casting no shadow though the sun's so bright
that from inside it appears to be deceptively warm.
I toss out the rest of my overcooked eggs
and make a mental note to be cremated
and dumped down a storm drain somewhere
to avoid the possibility of frozen grieving
of anyone who might be foolish enough to notice
one less fallen mercenary.

And this is where the clincher should go
but I figured I'd make this little number
just as anticlimactic as the life sentence
we've all been served.