Smoking in the clinic’s courtyard,
he stiffened, rigid at the sound of shelling.
Not shelling. Fireworks.
Fireworks. Not shelling, fireworks.
Fireworks. Christ, they’re shelling;
he flinched as each shell burst.
Sweat slid slickly down his chest,
his dog-tags swinging gently as he shook.
Not his dog-tags. They’re vapour;
vanished with his commission.
No. Carefully crafted replicas:
something to hold onto when the shelling starts.
Not shelling. Fireworks.
Distant mortars rumbled in his head.
Remember what the nurses taught you. Breathe.
In … two … three. Pause. Out … two … three.
Pause. In … two … three … oh what’s the fucking use?
He whispered, anguished, “Jesus – make it stop.”
Cigarette forgotten in his hand,
He turned to me, a silent witness:
“Alec, can you get a nurse? Please?”