Jogger at the Bloody Angle
She lopes upon the frenzy of the past
in blue running bra, red running shorts,
her ponytail keeping time in steady stride
like a metronome as yellow as new buttercups
along the road beside these earthworks.
Her shoes and music cost more dollars
than some who died here made in a year,
but dollars meant something different then,
and if she gives no thought to men
calf-deep in mud and purple puddles
from foggy dawn till long past midnight,
when the shot-up oak crashed down in rain,
it’s only fair. They gave the same to her.