I DON’T HAVE PTSD
[in Southernspeak]

When I wake up in the mornin’
most any day
everything isn’t broken
lying about in ashen heaps, the smell
his buddies dead or dyin’
one smokin’ wheel of the sideways chopper still turnin’.

I can have
an already-always appreciation
of a new day. Most any mornin’
rain, or sun peering at me
there’s blue sky in between the clouds
and the coffee is good.

I don’t have to clean up empties
or wipe up dog poo cause I didn’t let it out
in time
that time of not bein’ to forget, all encompassing.

My good friend has it tho
and it never fully leaves him
the self recrimination either
whar forgiveness ain’t
nor the compassion jus’ be missin’
he fight this time an’ next for the clear blue.

My friend has seen mor’ o’ the dyin’
than I will ever
even after a career of hospital intensive care work
where my role in it were to stop tha’ dying.
His was to cause it, that ther’ black
when we look each other in tha’ eye, we know.