ON MONDAY

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On Monday

Which was like

Any other Monday

Seven children

Woke up

Beneath one roof

In seven different beds

Which just minutes before

Were a flotilla of unmoored boats

Cast out to the Sea of Dreams

Which is why

When they woke up

They still felt like they were floating.


With half-mast eyes

They plodded barefoot  to 

Chilly tiled bathrooms

And performed their

rituals

With holy water and

Toothpaste 

Empowered by the invulnerability of childhood

As they conjured up images 

Of Spider-Man and dreaded tests

The new Justin Bieber song

And even that

cute boy

Or a cute girl

Who just might love them as much

As they secretly loved them.


Then they buttoned

And zipped themselves into outfits

And tied laces

Like veteran Boy Scouts

As bacon sizzled like a late night summer shower 

And eggs hummed like a warming up chorus

As mommy coffee bubbled with promise

And cereal boxes stood like

Patriotic sentries

On the table where

Just the night before

Everyone laughed

And sang

While they rooted for their favorite on American Idol


Daddy wasn’t there.


He he had left for work.


But right before he leapt into his squad car

To save the day

He no doubt

Stopped 

to bask in the glory 

of all those shuttered windows

As he imagined his children

Standing tall behind each pane of glass

As they waved goodbye to him

Like their hands were flags of national pride

At an Olympic game.


He would be back.


Because daddies always came back.

Sometimes with a cargo of Peeps

Or an assortment from

Dunkin’ Doughnuts

Or simply with flung wide open arms

That was a safe harbor for any one of his children to enter.


The AK-47 is a 7.62mm gas operated rotating bolt 

selective fire assault rifle. 

It is capable of a cyclical rate of fire up to 

600 rounds per minute 

and is usually fed by detachable 30-round magazines or 20- and 40-round box magazines.


That is what slaughtered daddy and

Nine other moving targets

Who were reaching for detergent

Or massaging a melon

Or debating which mustard to buy

In the very supermarket in Boulder

that Officer Eric Talley had been to a million times.

The place where he endlessly heard

“Please, daddy” and “Can I pick out the cereal?” and 

“Can we get yogurt after?”


As his mutilated body

was transported 

like a slain Viking

Inside a late night morgue car

Headed towards the pyre

Down a hushed highway

Saluted by blocks of brothers

In the silent song of grief

Just a few miles away

His children sat

Feeling the insult and impact of every single bullet

That will rip apart their Mondays

And attack their floatilla of dreams

Forever

Staring at the door

Waiting for him to come home

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