Six young soldiers on the march about their play,

the way home from school a fantasy’s war and

six young soldiers eager to chase and be chased

before moms and dads called home for supper.

They marched by the old redrusted railroad tracks run by the river,

above the road a bird’s eye view of the town’s comings and goings.

Tag!

A boy of about twelve chased, others ran to hide.

In their minds, they were wild men hooting about the trees

and running ragged through the muggy tall grass,

by the old drainage channel and the stoner-forged foottrail

descended from the ballast of the railroad to the treeline,

where a rotting chair and the discarded remnants of cigarette buds watched the game.

Yipping and yawing the chased cackled out their joy,

to say the one who chased would never find them!

But a voice fell quiet quick.

A boy of about twelve said no more.

I’m gonna get you! Got no more.

The five, youth’s uncertainty, knew not what to do

when the sixth fell out of sight.

Then all the world in all commotion,

and a slip on the unsteady ballast near to the descent to the road below

was ruled the likely happening,

and the body was dead before it was found.

Six young soldiers (one gone) on the march about their play,

take it day by day, watch their steps a little closer,

remember fond times a little fonder, pray for their mothers and fathers,

keep their guns close to their persons

at all times in enemy territory,

to know

the game they played was a game no more.