What a Day

I come home after the second
of two extra-long days at work,
tired, put out, and a little sore
from the unaccustomed hours.

I want to complain about it,
to moan aloud and be pitied,
but I glance at the calendar
and the whine sours on my lips.

A bad day is clutching the ground
when movement means instant death
as your best friend lies bleeding
beyond your outstretched fingers.

A bad day is having to pick up
shattered remains which had been
a smiling child who waved at you
when you passed her moments before.

A bad day is sights and sounds
that leave permanent wounds
no doctor can ever treat or heal;
they are inflicted on your mind.

The calendar shows that tomorrow
is Veteran’s Day – and suddenly
I am profoundly grateful my day
only involved a few extra hours.

By: Michael Williams / November 10, 2006

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