The soldier looks through his eyepiece,
the cross-hairs the end for many other flags.
The artist waits for inspiration alone,
the cigarette getting shorter with longer drags.

The soldier says to the artist, “I have been
been killing for way too long to remember,
could you do me a favor and recall for me,
how many weeks till a day in November.

The artist spoke after a long long pause,
“To count days is another fruitless endeavor,
each November will lead to the next one,
to reach your day it’ll take exactly forever.”

The broker of the deal, with his employer,
stood a million miles and a world away,
the black suits misleading the client,
into believing there is truth to what they say.

The soldier weaves the tale for the artist,
of deals in the dark with men in black suits,
and stands endlessly looking into the horizon
waiting for his own twenty one gun salute.


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