Dead to all swagger, dropped by hawkish ploys they garrison in dull fraternity. My car's late-model, well-appointed, I inventory limbs, then apply the gas distancing evergreen recruits at ease. Why one before the next, I slow to ask. No order comes, except some die too soon, called up from shortened tour, some vagary or happenstancea fated, front platoon. Names in a hat pervade democracy. I am not worthy. Neither am I blessed. Numbers are up. There is no final test. From the book Seperntrope by Norman Ball