Not Six Feet

His soul not six feet left his body
pals, jackals
stole his boots and ‘bines

Soon swift naked
no time to grieve
the sound in my heart
sick to my throat
I swallow hard and stumble deathward.

Absurd I turn
for treading as I fall
on severed limb from torso freshly torn,
I glanced in his vacant gaze
“Sorry mate” it seemed the English way
to apologise for ruining his day.

Copyright D. Archer October 2011

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