Down In the Foxhole with Me

I caught you at the right time
with you tired of hollow words
and people trying to sell you.
And you not knowing where I have you…
Down in a foxhole with me.

I recently read a poem by a guy who wrote poetry in a foxhole in WW II
I thought…hmmm, that’s what I'm doing,
handing out the poems left and right
and you looking at me
smiling and saying well now this is weird,
but sending poems back my way without knowing it.

The guy thinking back to the war recalled thinking
the poetry protected him
Since apparently nobody would kill a poet in a foxhole.
Turns out there are all kinds of people and yes
some would knock off poets in foxholes
as easily as they would pop a frying chicken
All in the line of duty, of course.
Surely foxholes are protective and poetry is a sure thing

By the time the smoke clears, I look down and
realize my skin is still on
And then with enough irony to choke Alanis Morisette
I can’t come through for you
Talk about your fragile trust…

I have a love-hate relationship with words
I mostly love mine and hate the ones said by others
The pen is mightier than the sword
and the sword is sans a certain subtlety

But then on occasion I am reminded
there are those with whom you move to sacred ground
To where you need never doubt them again
now, ten years from now, or twenty years…
You communicate rarely, but when you do
you hang on their words
knowing they speak genuinely
And it sounds like poetry in a foxhole