Sighting down the long black barrel,
I wait till front and rear sights
form a perfect line on his body,
then slowly squeeze the trigger.

The thought occurs
that I have never hunted anything in my whole life
except other men.

But I have learned by now
where such thoughts lead,
and soon pass on
to chow, and sleep,
and how much longer till I change my socks.

Copyright © 1975 by W. D. Ehrhart
A Generation of Peace, New Voices Publishing Company, 1975

This poem is currently published in
Beautiful Wreckage, New & Selected Poems, Adastra Press, 1999