The wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to,
they’ve stopped turning around the axel.
Rust has collected between the hinges
of about the same shade his hair used to be
when the war began
and bombs fell from grey skies
as dust settled amongst the cries of the wounded.
Newspapers sang of the death toll
as she waited to see his name
buried among the obituaries
or for the day
she would stop receiving tattered letters
scrawled in cheap ink in his damaged handwriting.
They’re saying the war was unjustified,
she felt so too.
And she waited for him to come home,
and he did
one day, long ago
when all hope dissipated
from her azure eyes.
And she waits for him again now
at the side of the hospital bed
but the wheels on the wagon don’t work like they used to.