"Plant yourselves" the sarge shouted
To his platoon.
So my backpack spade created
A sort of burial place. Surgically into earth
Did my digging instrument,
Holing just fox-deep enough for
Big bangs to near miss.
Then began the splattering-up shellburst earths
With all-but-burying debris.
Drenched, my body began feeling bloody
But checking around sight saw none.
Kept marveling at my legs
Became roots, though did not intend to
Stay planted and grow here.
After awhile labored climbing out was
Preferred to defer getting a grave just then
Because attack was the mode
Of the moment.
by Jim DeWitt
... who is managing editor of PEN-DEC Press, an
official of the Michigan Council for the Arts, was nominated for
a 1997 Pushcart Prize, with numerous works
published in various forums.