Snow clings to the old maple here like a last night’s lover
desperately hugging her Master Sergeant in the ticket line
so long ago on Boxing Day at McCallum Airport.
He was tall muscular and black, heading back to Vietnam.
But his flight to the base was sold out; her tears
spilled like wine on his pressed marine greens:
she wrapped him like Medusa on a branch
all the way to the door and the Texas sun.
In winter through this second storey window I see them still.
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