H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

JAMES RUGGIA

My Toy Soldier

At an inch high, he was patriarch of them all. He had a grizzle

beard, a cigar clamped between teeth and eyes that squinted at

sun. The Army of the Potomac’s Yankee Sergeant, he would when I

was older, a king in rags, drag himself to the palace, and

slaughter all the diners at a banquet man by man. Spitting stray

finger joints from the Battle of Chickamauga into a street-corner

bucket, he walked along wooden sidewalks reading nickel narratives

of the Bloody Kansas Wars. He bought a ham sandwich and a new

cigar at the drugstore. At the end of his life, he waddled with

legs so bowed, he looked like he was straddling a barrel of

daylight. His eyes brimmed with light and he laughed like he was

spilling his insides out. When he knew it was time to go he

bought a white suit, packed a valise and waited in a chair. A few

days later, the undertaker had to break his thighs to straighten

him out for the box.