GRAY SUNSET

"Battalion, Front!" hear the young colonel roar.
Four hundred men face left -
Four hundred men begrimed by war -
Four hundred souls of strength bereft.

They undouble ranks and center dress,
All squinting in the lowering sun.
Exhausted hearts in Gray-clad breasts
Wait for the day's last course to run.

Then "Order, Arms!" How sweet, Oh! Sweet,
As rifles slip through filthy hands
To rest their butts by pain-drunk feet
And say, "Enough, for now," to war's demands.

Off in the woods a band plays a waltz
That goes with the sounds of the camp.
Behind the battalion a battery halts -
Horse sweat and piss and jingle and stamp.

Now it's "Fix bayonets!" the battalion hears.
Rifles move left and bright steel flashes.
The moments are measured in units of years.
The hearts of the men are smoldering ashes.

As rifles move right the brazen, gold sun
Lends a heavenly glow to the young Colonel's head.
Four hundred men sigh, "It's practically done,"
And sniff at the smoke and the smell of cornbread.

No few of them sway on feet they can't feel.
Stack arms! the command, the men reach out
To lace rifles and blades in a ballet of steel.
Then back to attention - no murmur - no shout.

"Captains, take charge of your companies!
See to the needs of your men.
This day they have earned of their destinies,
And paid off their honor again."

Wess Rodgers
Albuquerque, NM
Feb 2001