MeCa

It was the morning after the war,

After fighting the night with our lighters

I laid my aching head atop of a smoke-filled jacket.

Though the injuries sustained were minimal,

We were all criminals; it was time to get away.

From Maine to California in the same day,

There was no one to catch us but then sun.

And from my window seat it looked like heaven,
They were taking me home on a 737.