Placing his feet upon the desk <br />his eyes swept over all his treasures, <br />two rather large bookcases of Tasmanian oak, <br />a disorderly parade of volumes and journals, <br />some stacked precariously, threatening <br />to slide should the mood strike them, <br />two old friends from the days of war, <br />hump pilots they were known as and some, <br />the ones who did make it back in one piece, <br />had smuggled one or two, they did not occupy <br />much luggage space, he'd wondered how they had, <br />with jungle tools, been able to reduce <br />the skull itself to something of a miniature, <br />skin did not hang, in fact was taut, of acorn brown, <br />small eyes that seemed alive beneath closed lids <br />and would observe the world, of that he was quite sure. <br />On Christmas Day he felt the force, today would be <br />the time to say his quick and indignant good byes, <br />he nodded to the heads expecting nothing in return, <br />and as he passed the pair just stared with open eyes.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/his-tsantsas/
