Telegram Poem by michael hogan

During the War everyone on our street
was afraid of Western Union
how the Gold Star always followed.
We saw curtains drawn, Venetian blinds
collapse in grief, the children stand
soberly as old men talking.
At the Bulge. A forest in Belgium.
So close to victory, the paper said.

When Sammy came home from Nam
he had an oil burner
five dime bags a day but he cleaned up
got a job driving for Holsum Bakery.
Then he quit to write his novel.

Sammy's mother told me
when I saw her in the local market
that I got better looking every day.
She said, "You're such a handsome boy! "
and hugged me.

So I didn't ask about the novel.
When someone is speaking to me of loss,
in the way they stand
is the sound of a doorbell ringing
in a corner house with green shingles
as all the neighbors watch
grateful it is not them.