The Last Confederate Poem by Roy Davenport

“You fought all the way Johnny Reb, Johnny Reb.
You fought all the way Johnny Reb.”

The music faded as the last notes floated across the room.
There was no hustle and bustle here as the residents of this
place moved at a deliberate, painfully measured pace.
White-garbed attendants moved among them
delivering daily doses of life-maintaining meds
prescribed by unnamed doctors rarely seen.

In the corner an old man sat alone, staring out of eyes
that had seen the best and worst of humanity. The faded
Stars and Bars on his hat gave hint of his allegiance and age.
They called him a veteran but in his mind he was just a survivor.
He had no words for It, though others called it a war.

The one that pitted brother against brother and father against son.
His tilled land had absorbed the spilled blood of soldiers
too young to die but too proud to run away. The lucky ones died
quickly….. others were not so lucky. Many were buried where they fell, never making it back home to wives and mothers.

He had watched them die….part of him had died too. The long rifle
he had carried had found its’ mark too many times to count.
He saw them fall, too far away to see their faces
but close enough to smell the fear and the death.

Soldiers in gray on either side of him had waited impatiently,
as the wall of Blue advanced. Then hell erupted five thousand times
as musket balls tore through arms, legs, torsos and heads.
The blue wall faltered and turned red as smoke tried to hide the scene.

The charge and counter charge lasted throughout the day,
only ceasing when darkness finally covered the carnage.
They called it a victory. He called it hell.
He had seen it all…been part of history though the price was too high.
The part of him that died was his best part, the part that smiled
and loved and laughed.

Now he only stared and waited on deathto come calling.
He was the last witness to man’s inhumanity to man.
There was no glory in sharing his memories so they would die with him.
They had honored him when he turned one hundred and one,
announcing that he was the last living Confederate soldier.
There were reporters and photographers, all there to record a bit of history.

But there was no family to share it…he had outlived them all.
They had even played “Dixie” as an honor guard saluted him.
The old memories flashed across his mind briefly as innocent voices
sang “Look away, look away, look away Dixieland.”
Then the memories faded again and he wondered if there
would be tapioca pudding tonight.
Roy Davenport ©2013