Nancy L. Meek

HEAVEN HAS NO FOXHOLES

He was hunkered down deep in a fetal position
his foxhole too shallow in a war of attrition
where incoming bullets spawned visions of death
till Pop! Pop! Pop! He drew his last breath
shot all to pieces while still in his hole
a camouflaged soldier minus his soul,
for there in the smoke clouds swirling around
his spirit was drifting with nary a sound.

None of the others, however, could see
his soul leaving, floating, supernally free
free from his foxhole not dug deep enough
his mutilated body no longer so tough
but motionless, smoking, silent and wet
a shell of a soldier still covered in sweat
from shoveling dirt for all he was worth…
nothing to some; that is, here on earth.