Ghosts

This comes from a recent Warrior Writers workshop we did in Chicago. It's called "Ghosts."

Infantry boots pound the forest

Heavy from mud encrusting with the

Phantom of their prey

Sand grinds eternally at their soles as they

Kick down the midnight doors of apparitions that

Fall with the dust settling in their eyelets

A stray strand of concertina long buried in the clay

Gouges a toe as they

Run for cover from the shadow of fear

Infantry boots ask no questions on the run

They protect the feet and are each morning expected

To tell nothing of the day before

They are wiped, brushed, polished, shined, and buffed to

Create an illusion of youth, but beneath the polish or deep

In the tongue is always a speck with a story to tell