Nancy L. Meek

BITTER AFTERTASTE

With a click of shiny heels, a salute and a pivot,
our war chefs did, with polished spoons, exhibit,
the penchant for stirring the war pot then leaving,
the carnal stew their close attention still needing,
the pot in Hell’s Kitchen brimming with their own,
our dear soldier boys who would never see home,
left over-their-heads in hot brew to drown and die,
their bangled wrists valiantly waving, “Good-bye!”