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Bastion (poem)

By Tony Marconi

This evening, someplace else,
soldiers die (the lucky ones).
Those less fortunate,
whose bodies lie mangled,
writhe in mud or sand,
until no longer able to scream
disbelief and pleas for mercy.

They exhale one last time
as the sheen in their eyes
fades to dull glass,
and the process of slowly
being forgotten begins.

On this side of the line, we sit
and sip coffee as we read
how the neighbor's son
has made the list.

More cream, dear?

—Tony Marconi