NaPM April 9 2015

[milo]

Last Words

 
It was enough that you would cover
my eyes with a plum handkerchief,
but to place this filtered twig
of a cigarette to my lips—
how like this generation.
You are all a blighted forest 
begging for the axe. 
 
Life should be more than a car loaded down
with wife and brats. I would not be reduced
to a peg stuck in such a tiny hole.  I saw 
the world’s four corners, and wouldn’t have
my steps counted out for me.
 
There was war college or naval academy—
Burma or Battleship. I was a Stragego
with the commanders in their tents,
but war without Risk is for politicians.
I mustered out as a colonel, and took home
more than medals. An Operation
on this wrenched ankle makes me gimp
along like a hunchback from the talkies,
my nose now red ever since
from cognac and long winters.
 
If I am to be shot, professor,
with my own Browning.
Then it will be seated as a gentleman
in this wingback leather chair.
You can pour me a drink first,
while I roll a proper smoke.

Stratego?