Water splashes into my socks.
My feet soggy,
Like some schoolhouse mop,
Stand impatiently waiting
Under a mint green awning next to a baker,
Some older businessmen
And five young wives
Deprived of love.

Stolen, maybe, their affection
Because the state commanded a redirection of course;
To war in Europe their husbands are to go.

These men as young as eighteen
Think they know what they will find,
That come springtime,
When the bones of French poppies receive their seasonal milk,
A truce will rise and set the skies blue.

We all dream of peacetime.
And in this moment,
As I observe them soldiers march on by
With Browning rifles stowed in their side
holsters,
Wrestling loyalty in silence,
I find my toes in wrinkled chill.