On a bus to Ronneburg

With you, in my mind

Summer approaches.
Cool, overcast morning.
“Thuringia is full of poppies,”
I tell you while grasping your hand,
    in my mind.

What would you say?
    What would Thälmann do?
        Eat the heart of the apple,
            raise your fist,
    Pump it,
        Pump,
Fight.

    No sun.
Yet poppy-red fire everywhere,
    dotting the fields in exclamation.
Some petals---you told me they are so delicate---
    have drifted into the shorter grass.
Delicate as my fear,
    my fear of ever saying
        something wrong to you.

Aside.

    “So why hasn’t Empire invaded it yet?”
        I ask no audience,
            again,
                in my mind.

It’s supposed to be a joke.
But it’s said with actual pain,
and shared with fear,
    in my mind.

Mitteldeutsche Afghanistan.
Black Hawks over Vogtland,
Marines deployed
    along the Saale and the Elster
Napalm bombs on the fields.

My joke,
    in your mind:
Apocalypse now!
    Let’s get it over with.

Come outside.

Egyptian geese by a large pond
    entering Ronneburg.
        Like me.
“Those are the undesired invaders,”
    they would say,
        out loud.

What goes on in their minds,

    I don’t know.