Doug Anderson: Vulnerable
She pronounced it without the “L”,
insisted it was a quality
of which we men should avail ourselves
(true, my pain so often masked itself as rage).
Thus some of us scattered our rusting armor
over the landscape of our sins.
It is winter now and also, for me,
the other winter that has no spring.
Our world has turned dark
and fascists have risen from their graves.
My imperfect life weighs on me.
And this day, in the bitter cold,
I would have at least my breastplate back.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson
This hits home.
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