"Hey, watch this."
We'd take out their legs first
in the LMG group, then
go for the body. Regular army
left us to their devices
on the range. They had
made me sergeant because
I could play drums. Logic
escapes. Here we were,
with our Owens, shooting off
at the mouth and
paradiddling the legs off
targets in the secondary dunes.
*
"Got a Lucky Strike?"
we sat at small desks
in Junior School,
flamming desktops,
using inkwells as ashtrays.
I drew some triplets
and bars of 6/8 to
look 'the real thing' should
our regular officer saunter down
to our practice room. I envied
my friend: his mother
a famous writer, his left hand
more flexible than mine.
He never wore his webbing
right and his boots had
last week's march on them.
Now sixty something, he falls
between pub
and shack, town drunk in
a fishing village, happy
on his lonesome.
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
|