Short poem (Jack Gilbert, age 86).

Convalescing

 

I spend the days deciding

on a commemorative poem.

Not, luckily, an epitaph.

A quiet poem

to establish the fact of me.

As one of the incidental faces

in those stone processions.

Carefully done.

Not claiming that I was

at any of the great victories.

But that I volunteered.

 

 

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