JOINT MANEUVERS
Duane Vorhees
Di dandles her tea like any grande dame
and she handles her whiskey as well
as a man.
I was a sergeant in the cavaliers.
I prized my targets
and my bandoleer,
my spurs
and my plume.
A chest of medals occupied
my room, none claimed in battle.
Di was a waitress.
She wanted to stop pretending princess
rise top.
and to the
One with ambition seeks one with regret.
“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”
One day when marching my tattoos
and flutes,
my eyes kept watching Di’s
bonnet and boots.
My parade dismissed,
this hungry soldier,
Sir Knight on a quest,
double-timed over to where she still stood.
As fierce
and as free
as fire from a woods,
Di saluted me
with crisp precision.
I saluted her back
stiff at attention--
never felt the flak
exploding
inside.
The wounded man
wed the ambushing bride.
And I never fled
the combat that came.
My new purple heart
marked my
rise to fame
and Di’s
state of art.
As I rose in rank it was her mission
to protect my flank and her position.
One with ambition
needs
one with regret.
“To starve the kitchen, feed a cook’s credit.”
Di’s deft riding crop
urges her stallion to boldly gallop
beyond battalions.
Duane Vorhees is an American poet who lives in Thailand.
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