I am reluctant to count the desolation
that played havoc with my youth.
I was frightened at my fear.
For a while I searched my memory,
looking for the kid playing an Indian
squatting in the distance.
I held my cap pistol tightly
and curled my fingers around the metal trigger.
I didn’t know I was being taught a bad thing,
as I supported myself with a peanut butter smile.
My smile betrayed me,
as my thoughts distracted me,
and the Indian disappeared,
moments before I fired.
I heard a cap pistol bang;
but I knew my effort was wasted.
On another day,
I was a Centurion,
and sat among my legions,
cursing at the hordes of barbarian enemies,
who were no match for the grandeur of my armies.
My weapons changed.
But, the enemy was always evil,
and life was simple then.
I could always tell
the good guys from the bad guys.
