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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

By ishmael

© 2019 ishmael (All rights reserved)


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