THE MARKET POST
Acetelyne torches can mark the
night, those little spits of flame
running upwards. A few tents do
dot the flat ground. Camp Kilmer,
I can remember, a veritable home
for boys. Leaving alone that place
too, we had, and only a few miles
off, Raritan Arsenel as well. Not
tents, either, more like the barracks
we'd take over - 35 Boy Scouts per
building on a camp-out Jamboree.
This was all the post-war stuff, and
after 1956. The Hungarian Revolution
or one of those outrages had filled up
Camp Kilmer with foreign refugees.
But what did we know - 12 year old
kids, sometimes already with dicks
for brains, looking at little blond girls
called Magyar or Jane. Oh those
little spittles of flame.
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