The Old Mexican General

The relentless Mexican sun burned acetylene,
blasting sweat like missiles from silos,
at intervals along the dusty midday street
a lump of poncho topped by a sombrero
and a halo of flies in the fluid afternoon.
Then I turned the corner, his corner,
and became his spoil. Uniformed he sat
astride a hammock in the shade of his veranda,
stewed to his epaulets. "News from the lines,"
he demanded, then passed out in a heap.
I would have told him that we faltered,
that the blood flowed  as if the living earth
had been stabbed in the heart. Coming to
in vomit and tears, the grey soldier
charged into battle and slew his front yard.