On the 1st day of March,

I saw you shiver, like

the note a gust stole from the gutter
you had so recently crossed.
Wet from swill, on it written –
“Did you know it’s monsoon again?”
It's late on its promise
of a torrent that speaks
louder than the Garand you hold
But your words still hang like bullets in the air
And I will be there to reap the skeletons
that you will have sown.