The writer is waiting. It’s his first drive
To an army school on an army base,
Unsure what vehicle will arrive,
Whisk him to the poetic front. His face
Is fixed, shoulders back and feet apart
He looks again at his itinerary
‘Military transport.’ Be still his heart
As he contemplates what that might be,
Maybe a jeep or a tank will rumble in
To the hotel car park and bear him off
And like an army general deliver him
With the sound of trumpets and all that stuff.
Then a taxi, not even khaki brown,
And the poet’s dreams come tumbling down.
© James Nash 2018