Under the Tracks

Poppies in
the rear view mirror.
I look back,
and I imagine
what I remember.
Red blossoms
across a white shirt,
a white throat.
Flanders Fields,
for an army of angels
who had no wings
and no idea
but plenty of ideals.
Would he have lasted three days
before he put a bullet
in his brain?
Would she?
Would I?

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