Nineteen Eighteen. A poem by Robert Donohue

The Brooklyn Eagle’s tribute to the dead
Had Conrad Scheirhorst blown-up by a shell
A week away from armistice; instead
Of suffering, he died, but never fell.
His messmate took it further, telling how
They sat together until Conrad stood
To get in line for seconds on the chow,
Only to disappear, this time for good.
The author thought it poignant to relate
Conrad had had a loyal sweetheart, who
Would never know that he had died; her fate
Was to succumb at last to Spanish flu.
She died the very moment Conrad died
And by these deaths romance was satisfied.


My poetry has been published in The Raintown Review, E-Verse Radio, Better Than Starbucks among others. I live on Long Island, NY where I am an essential worker.

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