Potato Soup

Potato Soup


like bleached bones

crunching beneath our boots


from where we came

to where we were going.


of some unnumbered Reich

we didn’t care

being caught in a battle of youth.

My face torn

bramble bush skin  

I was sure to win

golden medals

as we dragged our trails like tales

behind our pirate’s booty

tonight potato soup

would make our war worthwhile.

Still though childhood wounds fester

war only stops on a flat line screen

a doctor’s pronouncement and a crying child.