Classic Poem

Around the campfire we sang hymns.
When asked I'd play my flute, and lay
a melody between night's
incessant cannonfire that boomed
irregularly, but with the depth
of kettle drums. Occasionally,
in lulls, we'd hear a fading snatch
of Yankee song sucked to us in
the backwash of their cannonballs.
These are, oddly enough, fond memories.

One night, a Texas boy sat down
and strummed a homemade banjo,
He'd bought it for a canteen full
of corn. He followed me around
and pestered me to teach him notes.
He loved that ragged box but, Lord,
he couldn't play it worth a damn.
Nobody could. I tried to tell him so.
“Hell, I know, Sid,” he said. “If I
were any good, it would worry me
too much. This way I can just blame
the instrument.”
And this, too, is
a fond instructive memory.

Boom BOOM . “Listen to that,” he said.
Then silence once again as Yanks
swabbed out the cannonbarrel and rammed
another charge into the gun. They paused
a minute in their work. Boom BOOM .
Our cannon fired in answer to
in-coming shells. “Don't they,” he asked
“sound like a giant limping through
the woods in search of us?” I laughed.
It was a peaceful night and we
were working on some liquid corn.
Boom BOOM . I filled my cup again
and said, “He's after us all right.”
He laughed. Boom BOOM . I sloshed more in
his cup. A shell exploded to our right.
A piece of shrapnel nicked my ear,
and when the smoke had cleared, I saw
him sitting, looking for his cup
and for the hand he'd held it in.

From this, I didn't learn a thing.