THIRD WORLD HABERDASHERY
He knew his commander saw|
And accolades were forthcoming.
It was his first kill. His heart raced.
The steamy, hot air smelled of spent cordite.
By the time he reached
The crumpled, black corpse,
A great cloud of voracious flies
Hummed madly above.
The face was a red balloon;
The eyes open yet vacant as the
Orbs of a William Johnson subject.
It was a good shot.
The body looked oddly small and
He wondered how, when the bullet struck,
Those wonderful “jump boots” flew off.
He vowed to lace them tighter.
Joseph I. Middlesworth
© 2019 ishmael
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