Done for the day with plowing through sagebrush,
he rubs his blistered poet’s hands and looks
out past barbed wire and guard tower, all hushed
but for prairie wind. Feels he’d write a book,
if they’d let him—ode to that far klippe,
comparing it to cliffs near where they lived
in LA before troops loaded them up
like lettuce, shipped them here by train. He’ll give
the officers freedom’s inked snarl next week
when forced to fill out the loyalty form,
their plan to draft young male citizens, seek
to cart them to war, plucked from their stuffed dorms.
When asked, Do you
swear allegiance to the fight?
his pen will slash, Do
you give me back my rights?
Roger Armbrust
September 5, 2012
