SARGASSO


 THE GAS MASK



Digging for his roots

Beneath the cellar stairway

His garden spade turned up

The faceplate of an ancient warrior.

He touched the rubber stump of nose

And sifted through the broken

Portholes of the eyes

A little mound of dirt,

A skull an enemy has crushed,

He thought, and someone kind

Had given decent burial

Now he had dug it up.