Song for Night

Will Is an Emphatic Finger Pointing

The coffin spins around like a leaf turning in an eddy. No matter how hard I try to paddle, it keeps spinning in the same place, midway across the river.

Frustrated, I shoot my gun into the air until I run out of ammo and the trigger just clicks, the hammer echoing metallically. Sobbing, I watch as my platoon gets up and heads off, into the forest. They don’t see or hear me. How is that possible? I’m not that far away. Fuck this war, I think. Fuck it all.

Tired; I am so tired. I give in and lie back in the coffin. So tired; too tired.

As I drift off to sleep, I feel the coffin drifting toward shore.

I don’t care anymore.