Get Up.

Flash. The lights are flicked and sixteen feet all hit the floor — we’re sorely ticked we’ve had to leave our bunks but to avoid a thrashing bit we hide our funks; we lick our sixteen lips all chapped and quickly paste on sickly smiles; haste is health and ease, we’ve learned while here, and memories erased of jeans and hair and past lives spurned — for what? I can’t recall.


A heavy burden is the Smaj’s post Born by a man perforce a friend of few Who, leaving out good Colonel, bears it most And watches keenly o’er the men in blue. He humbly served in tasks both mean and vast With diamond-cut discernment held his rank And though in thankless station ‘till the last, Hath laid, by service, gold in heaven’s bank. We’ll miss him at his post (though he does not) And when recalling Sergeant Majors past His smile will by memory be caught: The voice, the name, the person, Pendergast.

In spring we sow, at the harvest to mow