The Soldier
Shellshocked Frank
My brother nicknamed him
because exploding shells
had severely deafened him.
A veteran of World Wars
One and Two,
we sat in the Ale House,
conversing,
as he perched on a red velvet
covered wooden stool.
“Hey, Frank.
Would you fight another war?”
He looked at me,
the stout shaking in his hand.
“I fought for you —
that’s why we’re here, son.
But the world right now
is more volatile than before.
Now you’re a little bit
long in the tooth, so prepare
to send your kids to war,
so this country in future,
can be secure.”
I coughed out cigarette smoke
like a sick dog,
ground the butt into
the cheap green
aluminum ashtray,
my forefinger on my chin,
contemplating…
