Ivory Coast Pineapples
by Michael Brett

Perfect soldiers: here they are packed
Into their boxes like landing craft,
Each one in full armour and green crested helmet.
Strong, silent and able to keep secrets,
The World belongs to them.

In the holds of aircraft, in the holds of ships,
They are all Spartans, meshed together and without identity,
The embodiment of force, forgetting
Where they came from, unquestioning
Where they go to.

Their only concern is getting the job done,
Caring nothing for you;
Caring nothing for themselves.

All down the line the whistles are blowing.

Here they come.

Copyright © 2011 - Michael Brett
Published: 11/17/11   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem