by Kathleen Carlton Johnson
He was full of private property
No item without its proper owner.
Every envelope complete with return address,
Neatly printed in the left hand corner,
Bills paid with mystical precision,
He found military life to his liking,
Bugles, whistles, parade grounds trimmed with flags
We his children, found him
Between the short holidays athome,
A gentle soul, who followed completely,
What he had been,
taught as a child.