PhuocTan Diep

A can of Canada Dry ginger ale lies exposed, torn in half. A tramp sniffs it for booze. It smells of fruit fermenting in wet packs. His boots are rotten, toecaps lifting off dirt-encrusted feet. He looks like he has marched a long way, from a far off bunker in some foreign field to this hidden place under a leafy bush in St. James Park.

The green map of Canada expands, reflected in sodium streetlights, mixing with leaves and covering him with lines of longitude and latitude, like a thin wire cage.

Now the soldiers lack stealth as they march, feet tapping on thin aluminium. He can almost hear their communiqués, the Morse code of tiny feet. The tramp shuffles deeper under the bush, allowing shadows to hide him from enemy eyes. Police sirens keep him on the edge of sleep.

Soft grass sighs as it is crushed under the running feet of a young boy, too young for cigarettes. He coughs up smoke in great mustard swirls. He looks around, eyes hidden under his cap with U2’s Achtung Baby emblazoned on it. He flicks the glowing tip, sparks flaring bright, and lobs it like a grenade, into the ginger ale can. He flees.

Soldier ants rush out over No Man’s Land and flattened poppies into their trenches.

There is two minutes silence.

The boom-boom of nightclubs shudder leaves, raining them down like shrapnel on the tramp. He flinches, retreating further into the ambush of sleep.