Grandfather used a soldier
for a scarecrow on his farm.
He thought the helmet,
a rusted tortoise shell,
and old muzzle nosed rifle
would scare away the crows
pecking at the seeds and corn.
He never noticed them creeping
from under his bed, slipping
into his bones. I imagine he
only saw them in his dreams,
sitting on the arms of an old
general. That would be him
in the starring role. And then
when it was his turn to leave,
they would offer a ten gun
salute before nose-diving
into whatever was left of his
corpse. I still haven't got rid
of them to this day.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.