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SHADOWS By
Ken Shiovitz The night he retired, we drank dark beer. He Bought. Soft visage, balding pate, He did not look like a killer. As so well I knew him, by soul, A mist was he, by deed. Neither threatening in height, Nor square of shoulder, I saw No Soldier. He looked woolen, like your grandfather, Or in black pajamas and huge Turkish mustache, Like your Mediterranean grandfather. How could I sit so near his shadow, I tangible, while he a spook? How could I even weigh his stature, A Hero, Six times wounded without tribute, Returning home without a story? To measure is but to be a male, To watch every war movie made, Absorb every action documentary, Behold every battle photograph, And Wonder. Can warrior legs be grafted onto mine? While friend was fixed behind a wall, And shatter-spatter filled his ears, I dove behind a Graduate School deferment, With dread of death no less real, Drawing fire from draft board head, Mad Mary. Her massive body equaled four of mine, she Had saluted and buried three soldier husbands, Thought, “Thus would grieve every mother and wife,” Bellowed, “Graduate students must grovel in the dust.” Behind my wall in the waiting room, I Hunched, Paralyzed. |
