Edit: this poem was published at The Lake, a fine online journal of poetry and reviews. Please check it out there and read all of the other amazing work!
On General Pershing Street
the crows eat Lo Mein
from styrofoam cartons
while down at the museum
of the Second World War
the Ardennes Offensive
plays on a digital loop.
The projectors over there
decode streams of numbers,
signifying suffering
in the dark forest room where
the sound of Howitzers exploding
among the artificial trees
tends to bore the children
down from the Midwest.
Tonight the Carnival Liberty
will carry those children
down the Mississippi River
churning quietly by
flaming oil derricks and
ghostly lights in the delta.
Roll, Jordan, roll
the old folks used to sing
down on the German Coast
watching dark blades churn
the oilblack current.
Black oil, the wings on the
Pershing Crows.
Rust on the wind.
C.B. Crenshaw 