The Soldiers - Poem by Francis Santaquilani
My friends have not arrived,
Or, they're here
But choose to remain silent.
They're odd in that way.
They know when the trains run,
They know the weather forcast,
They know when silence is most prized
And when the window's up.
They know that I know their cue,
But play dead to tease me.
Their timing can be frightening.
They know my role.
They wander the entire valley,
But call my yard home.
If the yard is full,
Then the house will do.
They chuckle and shoot-the-breeze
And leave the weighty questions to me:
How many volleys of disembodied souls did it
Take to fill the belly of a valley this size?
Why are you still around? What are you? I
Think they've arrived. Probably still amused
By the agonized expressions of the marathoners
Finishing the big Memorial Day race, or
How serious the reenactors are.
Comments about The Soldiers by Francis Santaquilani
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye