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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “New Moon” Down in the Dirt (v135) (the March/April 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Uncle Ralph

David Sapp

In 1940, Uncle Ralph
drove his father’s team
over rolling, Ohio hills and hollers,
through lush, green days of alfalfa;
timothy, wheat, oats grew in his boots.
On cold spring mornings,
there was only the quiet
horses huffing misted breath,
the occasional jangle of harness.

In 1941, Uncle Ralph
drove his Ford coupe, coughing
to a stop, up into the front yard,
and robbed the battery for the radio
as there was no electric that month.
Bombs whistled over Pearl Harbor;
sailors gasped under Oklahoma’s belly.
It was still a wonder to hear
far off voices through a wooden box,
the far off stomp of polished jackboots.

In 1943, Uncle Ralph
drove a truck for the army,
when all was olive drab, sticky crimson,
stark, black and white photographs,
a relentless cacophony of artillery and boots,
hauling ammo, rations, men
for generals and Roosevelt, gears panting
over the Apennines, kicking Mussolini
up the muddy boot of Italy.

In 1944, Uncle Ralph
drove his fork home, so the story goes,
sitting on a corpse, eating his dinner,
a Nazi uniform, his tablecloth
(Hitler, the maître-de), a German
boy with familiar eyes and mouth,
his breath and jackboots still,
scuffed, askew. Was he obliged
to drive his bayonet home?

In 1945, Uncle Ralph
parked his truck in Florence, a spot
beneath Brunelleschi’s duomo dome;
he conquered, sipping cappuccino,
the Arno, the Palazzo Vecchio;
he climbed Giotto’s campanile
to gaze upon his mountain sojourn;
he gawked at Michelangelo’s naked David,
a bootless young man resembling him,
stone lungs rising still with breath.

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