Old
Heroes at the Memorial Club
To compose a poem on old heroes at the Memorial Club,
which has probably been written before, is much like looking at the faces of
men in the cockpit of fighter-bombers crossing over a mountain range. Once when
enemy planes flew overhead they dropped bread, not bombs. People scrambled to
find pigeons wiping their beaks in the cracks of white stones. At the old
Memorial club, the diggers wore rubber-soled shoes...