Simmering

 

Though a Marine, I was
In only for the war.
Only in fancy could I
Have stayed.  It is much
The same now, not
Seeking the usual but
Writing the agitation,

Whatever significantly
Flares into mind in
Whatever form,
Simmering;
While I won’t
Wish to spend
Too much time

I remember the training,
How to rig a sling, walk post
In the dead of night, write
Of the squeaks and rustles,
The moon passing the trees
Illuminating my rifle’s dark glint
And catching whatever is there.