Lost Ground
Somewhere in the general melee
we lost our imaginary horses,
their ghostly neighing
added pathos to this momentous moment.
It was decided, we boys, and one sister
of a boy we hardly knew,
that Custer must die, the Indians win,
there could be no sudden victories
plucked from certain disaster.
We had no Indians,
one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow
does not make a gathering of the tribes.
We had no Custer,
six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair,
no mustaches. Undaunted
we marched on to meet our heroic death,
lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying.
A fertile field of battle was selected.
At the site of our coming glory,
it was disheartening to discover,
a growling construction site,
giant bull dozers,
tractors, and iron-toothed diggers
busily tearing up
our hallowed ground.
Jim (my best pal),
loudly proclaimed: " fork it,"
to no one in particular,
then sloped away,
hands in pockets -
an event which I now consider sadly ironic,
for ever since,
we have lost all sorts of battles
over many a fertile field.
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