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Reenactor
Reenactor
I watch borrowed glory march
Down a main street time tunnel
Resplendent in authentic wool uniform
Buttons polished, groomed impeccably
History embodied, carried back
A reluctant admiration escapes me
Despite a nagging irony leaking
As war enshrined once again
Bypasses reality, profligate propaganda
Glory shrouds the field
Bedraggled soldiers from the past
Marching constantly, more apt to die
From dysentery, as from lead hurled
Anonymously upon the next field
Shake their heads in wonder
Freedom won, spent to return
To the hell that ensured it.
© 6/15/00 Bart Breen
