Don't Know Jack

The Army took my Jack, my loving man,
sent him to Iraq to play in the sand,
now he sleeps on the rocks in Afghanistan.

We used to let our passions boil
now he sleeps on foreign soil
protecting my share of the foreign oil.

They used him up and sent him back
with his busted ass in a gunny sack,
I don't know Jack.

My Deal

On a summer evening when the sun
has quit and the air is cooled, I enjoy a glass

of Port and stimulating conversation
with a thoughtful and well-informed raconteur,

a tricky exchange of views
with my intellectual equal,

a Port and challenging game of strategy
with a like-minded schemer.

Deep in the night ideas ricochet
around the room like insects

on the screen, no insect too small,
no fantasy too cosmic, I pour another glass,

get in touch with my inner fence post,
deal another solitaire.

The tricky exchange goes on till dawn.