Classic Poem

In the trenches we wait
Rain pouring down
Our mud-soaked uniforms
Pasted to our bones

We wait

Puff on a cigarette
A deck of cards
A broken box
And a tin can meal

We wait

Passing the time
The bullets fly overhead
Occasionally
And sometimes we hear
The screaming
But most of the time
We block it out of our minds

And wait

Sleeping where we stand
Until someone gives the order
And it’s our turn to die.


(Previously published in The Hold, June 2003)