Day 11 Prompt: Write a veteran poem from the point of view of a veteran.

It was like I had slewed into an alternate reality
just one notch over from the one I’d always known.

On the surface, everything was as I remembered,
but almost imperceptibly off.

The sycamore tree out behind the house
was just coming into leaf
with that almost impossible gray-green
that sings out at you in the morning light.

When I came home, it was as if
someone had clicked that off,
turned down the volume.
The swaggering pink of the dogwood
was on mute.

Everything was like that,
like a veil had been thrown
over my senses,
like I was under the burqa.

Setting the table or sitting on the porch
talking to my mother
I began to feel that I could
no longer trust the distances, even.
Had I grown?  Or shrunk?
I worried that I would miss contact
with the surfaces around me,
slide out of existence.

One thing.  One thing remains the same.
No matter where I am in the house,
I can still feel the attention
of that crazy old dog, searching me out.
If everything else is slightly less real,
then this is more so.
When I roll over in bed,
I can sense him twitching his ears
where he lies downstairs on the kitchen floor.
Even when I am off to town
I feel the silver cord of his hope
mooring me, holding me solid.
And when I sit next to him
watching the sunset,
inside the bubble of his wakefulness,
the colors begin to sparkle and sing
almost as clearly as they used to.