Charlie and I, neighbors, would scoop foxholes

in his back yard for our little green army men

and with a stone on a string buried beneath

packed dirt, a jerk exploded our grenades;

our carefully arranged troops, unsuspecting,

were flung into an air of sweet chaos.

They would survive, only dirtied, to endure

by poly/plastic toughness, more assaults;

to rise and fall again and again without protest.

We taught ourselves to shoot; mimic the sound:

tongue-tip against the hard palate

capturing breath to spit-out air

securing an eternal arsenal;

ammo until our throats ached.

There were no points for body counts, no thrill

from carnage, rivulets of blood,

or screams of torture;

only our boisterous narration,

our mayhem play…….and the ecstatic scent

of fresh scooped earth’s essence and cool

red dirt staining raw fingertips

as Charlie and I rapturously sweated

another white-hot summer day away.

war games 

1957: Toys
Charlie and I would scoop foxholes
in the yard for our little green army men
and with a rock on a string, buried beneath

packed-dirt, a jerk exploded our grenades;
our carefully arranged troops, ambushed,
were flung into an air of sweaty chaos.

They would survive, only dirtied, to endure
by poly-plastic toughness more assaults;
to rise and fall, again…again, without protest.

We taught ourselves to shoot; mimic the sound:
tongue-tip against hard palate, captured breath 
spit-out rhythmically; an eternal arsenal;

ammo until our throats ached from firing.
There were no body-count points, no thrill
of carnage, rivulets of blood, torturous screams;

only boisterous narration, but most remembered:
the ecstatic scent of fresh scooped earths essence
and the cool, red dirt staining my raw fingertips.