Camp Hill Hit Patches
By Christopher J. Bradley
3/7/01 7:31:16 PM
Roped back half acres
Of green fern slicked around the blackberry cocoon
They made me think of dangerous games
That take place in the forest.
Of men hunting men as ghosts
Cutting one another down like lumber
The smell of freshly composted rot
Lingered even as a taste to me.
They were like down town SAS
I couldn't see them but they were there
I tried to avoid those hit patches
By following the back end points of bent black arrows.
They were posted along the sides of the road
Like warning markers left near
The site of an Indian Burial Ground
Stand clear of the kill zones and everything will be fine.
The road wound slowly
And as I made my way past an industrial park
Buried in the greenery
I began to realize that Camp Hill was nearly gone.
A small bridge asked me to pass over
And I found myself compelled to cross
Knowing that it would be taken by ion pulse
From one of the birds in the sky.
None of it mattered much
I had passed safely through
The next phase would be critical to the plan
Closing the back door for good was the key.