They're tipping their battered derbies and striding forward In step for a change, chipper, self-assured, Their cardboard suitcases labeled @3Guest of Steerage.@1 They've just arrived at the boot camp Of the good old French Foreign Legion Which they've chosen as their slice of life Instead of drowning themselves. Once again They're about to become their own mothers and fathers And their own unknowable children Who will rehearse sad laughter and mock tears, Will frown with completely unsuccessful Concentration, and will practice the amazement Of suddenly understanding everything That baffles them and will go on baffling them While they pretend they're only one reel away From belonging in the world. Their arrival Will mark a new beginning of meaningless Hostilities with a slaphappy ending. In a moment, They'll hear music, and as if they'd known all along This was what they'd come for, they'll put down The mops and buckets given them as charms With which to cleanse the Sahara and move their feet With a calm, sure, delicate disregard For all close-order drill and begin dancing. Copyright 2001 by The Modern Poetry Association. This poem appears in the April 2001 issue of @3Poetry Magazine.@1 http://poetrymagazine.org |