Classic Poem

Randy he is, all wire
where he walks on springs
of his ding toes, eagle-shouldering,
mincing up to a mark
(for the start of a spar or a sprint)
that stays just ahead of him.

One-man-parade and darling
of the regiment is Mister
Doodle (so-called since children
found he cries cock-a-doodle
instead of -a-doodle-do.)
He holds all ranks in a squadron

of three—two hens and him—
and is color sergeant,
most decorated veteran,
colonel, cornet and trumpeter,
bivouac and supply chief
and battalion boxing champion.

Reveille's 5 a.m.
and the regiment moves
out of barracks at 5:01,
all ranks not chicken
wearing a red-bagged busby
and dazzling gold dolman,

purple cockade and ep-
aulets of green
and umber fire. Lord knows
where they go, glittering
into the long marches of the morning.
But the trumpet blows and blows

fainter each time, until
it's so far off
you, half asleep, with ease
can hear Ferdinand's hussars
or, barely a whisper now, Roland
in the passes of the Pyrenees.











By permission of the author.