| | Little Gray Men
A little gray man stands in front of me,
He holds his short gray sword up high—
A stubby little thing, a hobbit-sword, like Sting;
No one would wield a sword that short.
He thrusts it forward, over his head—
An awkward position, no good for stabbing—
You could never stab someone that way.
Perhaps he’s pointing the way to something:
“The enemy are over there!”
But maybe not. He seems more like a statue than a soldier.
But after all, he was cheap, and his rugged simplicity
Has something to be said for it.
Another little gray man (but a different gray)
Stands fierce at the head of his fellows
On my living room floor.
“Charge!” he yells, his lips parted,
From which a wispy beard hangs
like overgrown moss
off a gray rock.
He too holds a sword above his head,
But swinging it like a scythe,
ready to lop the feather off his ridiculous hat.
Like a firecracker ready to explode, not the rugged old statue—
this one was worth every penny.
And a whole host of little gray men
Stand sentinel on their beach bluff
They sit tight in their trenches, waiting for warriors
To jump out, firing, from boats below—blasting their flamethrowers.
Alas, I am too old now for these two-inch soldiers;
(at least, so I am told)
Their battle-worn faces, so familiar now, must lie forgotten,
Collecting dust in a dingy basement—
Perhaps someday my son will want to play.
|
| | Posted 1/17/2008 11:59 PM - 31 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
- recommend
  - recs0
- share
- email
 - sent0
|
