There is a soldier dressed
in ancient English wool guarding
the entrance to the inn.
He is lucky for this cool night
awaiting the pomp
of the out of town
wedding party.
He is paid to be unmoved
by the bride’s stunning beauty
or her train
of lesser escorts.
He will not notice
this small stone
set across the square;
His eyes will not glisten
when he hears
that two brothers
fell here,
picked out
of disciplined lines
beating
a hot and hasty retreat
back to Boston.
He will not
chasten his comrades
for leaving them
in foreign dust—
the dull and whistling holes
torn into soft
and homesick wool.
He betrays nothing.
Inscrutable—
he collects his check
and drives home.
~The Colonial Inn
Concord, MA.
