B Joseph Biesek wrote this poem.

Sole
By B Joseph Biesek

We shared the same cot in 2003, only he is not
American. It’s nonsensical, and not erudite, to
Compare myself to a wounded foreigner, as a
Pacifist, a Liberal, an Intellectual? See, the

Wounds are manically deep, if I do say so myself.
If I do say so myself, acting impoverished is living
The newest Negro Spiritual; being a rich celebrity,
I’ve been there and have few qualms with those people.

You people, you poets! They might shout, sharing
Manicotti and poached salmon, and a nice splash
Of white wine. They might, indeed, have true
Esprit de l’escalier, but it’s all the same: Life is …

Life. The American GI of today isn’t quite the same
As the French soldier of the 40s. We’ve armed our
American boys, up to their teeth, with modern gears of
War, our machines, still crushing (them), however.