Hell Yes, I Write Sonnets Sometimes

In deference to you I stood aside,

And watched them touch the medals to your breast,

And ingots, ribbons pinned you to the sky,

And poppy fields grew across your chest.

I watched you turn alchemically to bronze,

And though I’ve heard that heroes slumber deep,

It must be cold, this pedestal you’re on,

And hard with taps and guns to get your sleep.

While over you and all who ‘round you lie,

In rain, at dusk, in mourning, or in sleet,

No blankets warm beneath the ‘lorning sky,

Save for some tattered flag your only sheet.

I wonder if you knew back then how cold,

The world seems to be, and is, for one grown old?