He comes up, goggled,
out of a manhole
in the middle of a street
in my peaceful town,
sun the sole brazier,

like an old Saharan
veteran, Rommel-pointing
his tank across the four-
year stretch of sand,
shell holes filling up
quick as death.

I think of Frank Parkinson,
Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk,
now in his grass roots,
the acetylene smile
on his oil-dirty face,
the goggles still high
on his high forehead,
his forever knowing
Egypt’s two dark eyes.