somewhere that don't matter much,
ol' Jimmy stands with friends and waits.
Harsh crash, a single cannon's voice
pounds against Jim's ears, tells all
this morning's battle has begun.
The acrid smell of powder burnt,
familiar to his nose, the smell
of combat and of comradery.
The crack of rifles firing in
the morning air, the shouts and calls
of men opposing one another,
A rebel yell calls Jim to spring
to charge an enemy position
in the tree line opposite.
The rush of battle surges men
and sweat across the field where Jimmy
spins and falls, a casualty today.
Some minutes later he's no longer
down; he lifts and fires the rifle
that his forbear'd fired at Richmond.
Evening, Jimmy eats and laughs
with friends around the fire, waiting
for tomorrow's call to battle.
Next day's sunset, Jimmy eats
at home with family, watches drama
on the tube, and sleeps in bed.
He's done honor to his ancestry,
their past, whichever side he'd played,
remembering the valor of these men.
The morning news reports another
war with blood and tears and clamor,
the stench of smoke and death and grief.
A veteran myself, I fill
the air with metaphors and lies
and wonder if we'll ever learn.