a poem in my pocket

Break camp in early morning dew,

assemble at bike shop before rental battles begin,

move out equipped with maps, helmets and backpacks.

Family expedition to historic war zone in July,

amid maturing wheatfields and quiet peach orchards.

Pedal single-file,  pause to read marker,

muster a smile for the photograph and

retreat to the solemn shade for a picnic lunch.

Today, brothers volley friendly jibes where

yesterday, brothers exchanged whizzing bullets.

Sweat to the crest of Little Round Top,

dare to peer down a cannon’s dark throat,

weigh the lead ball in your hand and shudder.

Monuments mask the magnitude

of the horrors that happened here.