Epitaph for a Draft Dodger
with a call to arms, he scorned those lies
others packed like socks into their duffle,
that, winged by shot, no soul would rise
of the scuffle,
virtue was no shield with ghostly glamour
blind an enemy or block a shell;
cased in ego's large Vulcanic armor
he thought, to slave, a hired man
some dirt farmer, gnawing on wooden bread,
rule, a decorated veteran,
the wasted dead.
citing precedents, he made his choice,
to march in ranks, now forward, backward,
to shout with others NO MORE TROYS,
others die. He traced memorials
like long roll calls named those gone to glory,
in prestigious periodicals
Walking Backward, Story Line Press, © 1999.
by permission of the author.
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