My father's friend John Drachmann
Could've died several times in the War
But his musette bag -- a hardy confection
Of brass and canvas -- would have survived
Anything short of a direct hit by a shell
Or being doused in gasoline and set on fire.
He gave it to me when he gave away
Everything that reminded him he'd been a soldier.
My brother got his dogtags and bitterly regretted
Our mother not letting him have a spent bullet
On which John had scratched his initials.
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