No-Man's-Land (Poetry)

We bide our time in self-dug foxholes
hunkered down
sporting various uniforms
not khaki maybe
but dressed according
to some glossy fashion manual
shoes hardly suitable for the rough terrain
too high-heeled on stylish principle.

Inevitably night will fall again
and in the dark we lose
our sense of direction
we no longer know
which way the enemy is coming from
we smell our own fear
pungent as camp fires
the smoke all too familiar.

We can shut our eyes
against the threatened blast
crouch deeper — draw the earth
over ourselves
in readiness for whatever comes
but the truth is we are not ready
and we no longer have a clue
who or what we’re fighting for.