My friend does not support the troops,
he is a consummate lover of love itself, and himself.
Not for him, getting shot down like a lackey
in the front-lines -- he spies exclusively to fourth base
n' blows that blighter up.
Fireworks signal his return to the Homeland by sea,
queues of women with I.O.U.s gripped firmly in hand.
For them, barrel-fulls of exotic chocolate, unloaded.
As they grab and pull, my friend the lover slips away.
Poker in Vegas and pay-as-you-go prostitutes,
filet-mignon at a steakhouse by himself, on his own time.
Sits in a hotel room with a warm golden light and television
veteran of loves bygone with a single bullet gun.
A contest entry
- Heartbreak by Puking Faerie Dust.
1050 points, ended February 24, 2009, 29 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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