As the night falls heavily

on duty and fate,

we lie prone—

bone to the earth—

listening into the elephant grass

for Death crawling our way.

Transfusing blood

to the savage mosquitoes,

awaiting the dawn’s assault,

I assess the day:

Gunny shot up,

Ballew dead,

Romero a ghost,

others grist

for the surgeon’s knife

Tomorrow not promised to anyone.

© Copyright Carl Hitchens