inane

by Linda M. Crate

piece by piece the war
stole fragments of his
sanity, ripped him from
the arms of those that

loved him; he couldn’t

remember birthdays or
the names of his great
grandchildren; he drank
clouds the way some do

champagne; stole away

to glasses of vodka and
pictures hanging on the
walls, trying to remember
the topography of forgotten

faces hanging in his heart.