When I Used To Be Immortal Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

I waded
knee deep in rivers
with a bunch
of rascals
the same age I was.

Five
was the preferred
number.

We'd get together
in shallow water
where fleeing
German soldiers
had discarded
their military gear.

It included rifles
with bent barrels
and
pocketful
of useless bullets.

That is until
we got hold of them.

All the kids knew
where to get black
powder.

We'd grab
a shiny brass bullet
and wedge it
at a 45 degree angle
against a flat
river stone
then gently
hammer it
with a another smaller one
between the bullet
business and its opposite ends
until it'd bend open.

It was as simple as
separating
a crawdad from its tail.

Nothing better in life
than packing
the square flat pellets
in a small hole in the mud.

We'd run the powder
like colored sand rivulets
not unlike Tibetan monks
form a Yantra
with as many zigzags
we chose.

The more
the better
the fireworks.

And that's before
we knew
what Tantra meant.

Lighting the far end
we would run
like hell
away from it
laughing
our asses off.