Facing Out
The shoulders chaffed, the weary backs
of pack mules cursed with intellect,
so briefly were unburdened from
the detrious of war.
A break for a line doggy
from the green corrupted alley,
the worst stretch of the worst path;
hell's putrid inner city.
The Pall Mall you were having;
a cardboard box of four;
packed in nineteen forty six;
tobacco stripped three years before
the two of us were born.
Pungent smoke for driving off
the squadrons of mosquitoes,
drawn to the stench of uniforms
unchanged
in forty days.
Facing out; back to back,
your pack and mine supported.
I welcomed the distraction
of dreams softly spoken.
My pound cake and your peaches,
in drab green cans, divided,
thoughts of small town rodeos,
cool beds, with sheets,
and warm...
Precious breath not wasted
on Patriots,
or Politics...
Copyright © Wayne Sapp | Year Posted 2010
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