As the child moves out
And in grooves dug
By the humans and their incessant
Ways of heritage and entitlement
These little ditches get deeper
And deeper
They suffer from collapse during
The torrents coming in the spring
Then summer
Late winter. Often there is no way out;
Infrequently, self-help motives act
As enablers and there seem to be reasons
For everything: you meet miss perfect
In the bread-line, for example.
Persistent POWs
Wage war with the elements for years unknown,
Forgotten and abandoned – so much refuse in a
Barrage of cast-off older models – of national service,
Patriotism, and mannish ideals. Yet no one is saved.
And the soldier drones on.
©jim hill 06-27-2013
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