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You’re walking down the street alone, absorbed in the anticipation of a lunchtime salad with that crusty olive bread you like so much, and suddenly you’re marching in formation in a crowd, it’s called a regiment. You seem to be a soldier this time, you learn to be at war. You’re never really in danger because you know you can’t die in your dreams, but sometimes you wonder who told you that and whether they could be trusted. The sidewalk is split and uneven because of the shrapnel and the artillery shells; yesterday you didn’t know the definition of artillery, but today you know how to use it, all kinds of field ordnance. “Ordnance” is a word you’d never heard before. Every time there’s so much to notice, so much to remember and write down. Here’s a little notebook with rubbed-down corners for your back pocket. It’s the little things that distinguish one war from another, tonight your shoes are black standard issue marching boots that lace half-way up your calves, whereas the other night you had no shoes at all, or the shoes you’d lost were beige bedroom slippers whose plush offered no protection, trudging through the slush- and rain-saturated street. The subway crash distracted you from that, now you’re climbing over the wreckage to the next sheltered position, air thick with morning mist (you’re shivering), smoke and a haze of acrid dust, it burns your lungs. You’re clambering through accordioned cars, where are those twisted rails that won’t carry any passengers taking you?
©2003, Reginald Shepherd
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