My Sleeping Bag
by Michael Brett

The flash and shake of the heavy guns' barrage
Are giant silver elephants in a tutus, thumping
Their hind legs on the horizon's black stage,
Radio City.

Everyone wants my sleeping bag:
At midnight, on the artillery range.

It is cold and all the shell bursts and the parachute flares
Are white and loud as applauding hands
Over map references and targets.

Everyone wants my sleeping bag.
They are jealous of its hot ammonite coil,
Its Jurassic fossil slumber.

They surrender sleep and stand, like POWs in their blankets,
Under wet trees, waiting for dawn's liberation.

But, deep in my sleeping bag,
Deep in my slit trench-
Smelling of wet earth and leaf mould-
I am happy
As the elephants dance.

Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/26/10   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem