more Adventures of Exploit Command

The newer crewmember trying to explain
to the more chiseled and grizzled
crewmember who wore a thick and tall
stitching of stripes which were dirty
as the rest of his uniform
– not that they wore uniforms
or were too concerned
about keeping within regulations,
not in this place, not against the hill
or the fissure they’d for a week
been in sweaty confrontation with
– since they’d changed into coveralls,

Exploiter Command Approved coveralls,
that were really made more cheaply
than most civilians could find
at reduced prices – so the crewmember
who had only a pair of stripes
was wanting to challenge the guy
with more stripes, like if they had job
security in the place he lived
when he’d joined – and yeah, why did he stay
on so long if he was now so eager
to get out? He’d been about to ask
that exact question but he realized

he’d been leaning on his shovel
while others were putting their shovels
into the dirt, and slinging the dirt
over to the side, and the veteran,
retightening his red headband
appeared to excuse himself from the discussion,
from anything other than the shovel
in his hands and dirt slid from his boot

as he forced the shovel blade
into the ground. So the two-striper
felt this wasn’t the time to try
a bitter man’s thinned patience
and only a glance from a higher
position like a supervisor
with binoculars could see
he was the only man among these men
who was not shoving his shovel
into the dirt. So the two-striper
pulled in all the words that wanted to roll
off his tongue and into the free
air and to strike the bitter
man and then run into nothingness,

and tucked those squirming words into a pocket
deep in his gullet and then took
to the shoving of his shovel
into the dirt and it didn’t seem
to matter that the place they were all
shoveling was nearly half a soccer field
away from the main site of interest,
that site being a very real fissure.


Chief Marshal Jones averted
his gaze from where his eyes
had been pointing, which was the hill
and the crew and that moist
fissure the valiant
crew’s efforts finally
pried apart
– and Chief Marshal Jones
certainly heard the joyous whoop
ejaculate from the crew
since though in a relative
distance, Chief Marshal Jones
was outside, on the porch,
or the balcony, the overhang,
the tower’s balcony lip
– so his gaze went heavenward,
though no deity was called upon
just then, but that was the appearance.
And in the silence that ensued
while Chief Marshal Jones
stood at the rail with his eyes
screwed up, his lower lip began
to right about then, quiver.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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