From the Archives...
Reflections of Papa
You said the bulls were lovely in Spain.
And they were when run by the matadors
In wine cloaks that play a muerte refrain.
(It was before I shipped to fight my war.)
You saw the rested dead in Italy.
(I saw. On the green hills of Africa
with African dead crying Somali.)
You hunted (I died) and drank of Kenya.
In Paris you found there was life in you,
“On peint si bien quand dans aux Paris,”
And no paint colored your belief in truth.
You ate, dined, died the unmovable feast.
(I am a coward. I saw death and ran.)
I wish never to be like you. But I am.